She is equipped with sensitive nipples
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, rubbish removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no.  Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a shag?
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for  
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope  
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can hump it in the kitchen, who  can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, and who has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
even after all of this,
it would be dishonest of me to brag
that I know much
about women  at all
because I'm really a total ignoramus
and I'm just another work in progress.

Of course, I like preposterous and circuitous,
cirrocumulus, curmudgeonly and humungous,
audacious and bodacious,
irradiance, iridescence and magnificence,  
flamboyant, fandango and flibbertigibbet,
(but this is difficult to say when you’re drunk),
sumptuous, salacious, slithery, sexy and glistening,
crepuscular, strumpet and strawberry.
And I may as well include whipped cream
here as well, because this can be laid on in dollops,
and dollops is really an excellent word.
Drooling is also highly evocative,
and I don't need to be provocative to observe
that even weapons can drool.
However, I'm really very flexible, because
in my lexicon,  low moaning noises are OK, too.
These sounds are actually part of the chord of creation
and the primal reverberation from the time of
primordial ooze, which would be great between my toes.
Then there's protozoa, spermatozoa and also
wriggling flagella everywhere. So there.
I think we should also celebrate salivate,
and also onomatopoeia that helps choose words to display here.
Words I don’t like include don’t, can’t,
stop and mustn’t. Also, irascible, indescribable,
unmentionable and ineffable, impotent, incoherent,
incontinence, leaking colostomy bags,
importune and misfortune,
gawping, cavernous and cretinous,
circumambulatory and pursed lips.
These words should get the heave-ho.
And I definitely don't like parsimonious and mendicant,
which are miserable words.
Words which I abhor even more,
include cunt, which is an insulting word, and
being taxonomical, the score of this word is astronomical.
Hate is also right up there on this list. Hate is abominable
because it tries to destroy love,
and love should be indomitable.
Indomitable
is one of the
mightiest
words
in the world.

Mike T Minehan

there are certain things that you need
and i am not one of them
and that hurts

It has been said that religion is a crutch. Well then my friends, let us praise those who only need one crutch to get around!

I fear that even two crutches would not suffice for me. Even standing still or walking, the result would be an unceremonious fall. Although walking is a hallmark of humanities' ancestors, I myself would need the aid of a wheelchair.

Let us also not forget those who have no help at all. For some, this means they can walk tall. For others not so gifted by fate, fortune or heritage, it means they must crawl.

So I, from my perspective of low-position and station, whether in need of the wheelchair or the rough ground to crawl upon, find it relatively inane and banal to critique my fellow invalids, cripples, and broken souls. Alas this wheelchair is no mean platform to sit in judgement from; excepting for hypocrisy, that acquaintance to us all.

So should we all point at each others infirmities, shortcomings, and private tragedies, waving our crutches in accusation at the prosthetic limbed protagonist before us? Or should we silently be thankful if we have enough to get by, - crutches, chairs, slings and all?

Perhaps I miss the subtle verve and nuance of these careful considerations, but is the bottle, the pill, the embrace of another, the painter in rapt repose, the musician playing away, no more than a diversion of differences from sling to crutch to chair? Who is the least crippled seems a game most perverse to play with a crowd looking for a cure.

Perhaps my betters can explain how to judge others so swiftly, truly, and justly? Pointing out so and so's prior sins and what's wrong with them. I am but a poor soul who simply resorts to love, lacking the telepathy to read the hearts and minds and know the travails and tribulations of the unknown cripple we castigate.

So please, weary traveler,  let me give you the wheelchair and I will keep the crutch in return, but do not fret, I only carry the crutch to give to the first person I find crawling.

Only then, needing to walk but having no aid, will I finally learn how to choose love over fear and strive for truth as I am unmoved, slowly wasting away.

I’ve got to tell you,
yes, you, Muse,
that you can be a real little tart, sometimes,
just flirting with me
and merely swirling your skirts.
And I’m so fucking vulnerable!
You hear that? I’m weak!
I’ve been meekly saying yes, yes,
thankee missus, so pathetically obsequious,
while tugging my forelock, or something else,
before scribbling about these ridiculously tantalizing
little glimpses you’ve been flashing me,
just the merest snatch of insight,
when I so desperately need, you know, the whole enchilada!
Now look here.
You’ve got to go a hell of a lot farther than just flirting with me!
I need your hot little chilli, see?
Something incendiary!
You hear?
Maybe sink my teeth right into your euphorbia poissonii!
Yes!
Even if this fucking well kills me.

Mike T Minehan

Sometimes when i say
"I'm okay"
I need someone to look me in the eyes,
Hug me tight and say
"I know your not"
And if one day you feel like crying you now know where to come.
Which is why where meant to be the best of friends
We have our disagreements, arguments but who doesn't
Friend love is magical its like a dove come flying out of a magicians hat,
Mysterious and merry.

The memory of you still exists in my mind,
three years, two girlfriends, and a thousand bottles later.
The way i look for your eyes in a crowd is unsettling,
searching each face as they walk by in their own quiet parallel universe
unaware of the longing for the comfort of your soft voice and gentle touch
I look for you because you still are the one,
the one who suffered with me without question and saved me when i was in need.
Salvation was in large supply.
Redemption was a certainly familiar entity.
and the road to your heart was a unpaved trail through the wilderness of time and space.
Let it be the one i stay on till the end.

Behind this little curtain, I hide.
I do not lie, but I do not tell the truth either.
I do not flash it in your face,
but I'm afraid you may know my

secret.

If this happens, everything will turn upside down
and I need to find a paper bag,
where I'll readily stuff my face in and hide under a rock
Until maybe all magically is forgotten.

I am ready to tell you the truth, however,
although my paper is transparent, a see-through glass,
piles of white lies may start to stain it and soon,
it will be so opaque you have to dig deep into there
To finally see the face that's hiding behind.

I am not desperate or a stalker,
or you know,
the one that sends you long text messages
and waits eagerly for a short reply.
Whenever I try to forget you,
you pop into my memory and tempt me into no bounds
of imagination. It's necessary I try not to follow,
but I always end up falling in the same hole.

So please understand, that if I suddenly reveal my identity,
do not be taken aback because this is what I have to do,
for you have caused me to be slightly obsessive and
longing for even a slight bit of communication between
us. The us that I dream of, the us that happened, what of it is left?

To start anew? This is rather painful. I don't want to forget, you see.
You were so lovely and sweet. How can I erase you from my memory?

People come and go, but you stay, longer than I thought you would.
This attachment is detrimental to my being. If any longer your existence influences me,
I will stop living in the present and reality and just dream on about non-existent parallels,
wasting so much time and feelings.

Okay. So this is why I'm being so secret there. You would only talk to me that way.

Because,

you wouldn't want to talk to me.

Thank you, dear, though, for that sweet little message.

The hopeless shall hope less
and the ghosts will mess with your mind.

The appearance of Ghosts,indeed
those that would feed on you
bleed you dry
make you cry
then spirit you away.

The day is a safe place
where your fears can be faced
and the ghosts have no say
but they look on.

Ghosts are never gone
they're always there, drifting
here and there
lifting the lid.
Ghosts know what you did
they don't forget
they never let you alone
they've made their home in me
they never let me be
one day I will get free
but I know that the ghosts will see
and they will once more feed on me
I really want to be
free of the hosts of ghosts that follow
and give me that hollow feeling
when they come through the doors or the ceiling
and start dealing me my history
in pictures I don't want to see.

Ghosts
they need me
indeed
and I feed them
when
will they leave?