You might not like to see my fat jiggle, or my **** wiggle, but this body has carried me farther than your giggle ever will.

It might not thrill you, but I’m a no-frills woman who takes what she has and makes with it her own – and lets not pretend, I have more than you know beneath these clothes. There might be rows and rows of dimples and wrinkles and obvious freckles (that to some might be cute) but under these puffy cheekbones is a skeleton I call home, and it’s not yours (thank GOD), but it’s worthy of knowing.

It’s your loss if you choose beauty over brains and heart and THIS thinking mind. I might have a long way to start to be someone you’d find yourself watching through blinds, but I’m a **** sight better than someone without the courage to stand wherever she lands – and if that’s behind, then that’s where you’ll find me. That’s where I’ll sweep my floor and make my bed, and, with pity, watch YOU instead to discover that not everything ‘pretty’ is worth uncovering, or owning, or smothering with pride, because, for those with eyes WIDE open, there’s nothing worse than a soul smashed and dried with a hole that leaks powdered ego, nor the upper-class battering eyelashes of a pointless romantic who would rather own lavish belongings than dance in her heart with far less than what she ever dreamed to start with… and woe to all if she ever had to depart this earth without her heels and her silicone ******* and her lipo-suctioned stomach and thighs beneath that little black dress.

Woe is me for laughing at such perfection, unimpressed.

The truth of where I am in my life, and what I have, and how I give it all when I can to others is what keeps MY story so grand and worth more sand than all the beaches combined, although, in this body, all that matters is INSIDE, and not sun baking, or swimming, or shopping, or dining, or making up lies to refine me. I am THIS, just what you see, and if you don’t see me matter-of-factly then I won’t miss you, exactly.

Oh, and what I also won’t miss will be wishing I’m something more than I am which is smaller than my clothing size – but still ‘too large’ in your eyes… but that’s YOUR lie because you’re controlled through the media and told like a child what you should want and should need – and, furthermore, you are blinded by greed, and blinded by fright, and blinded through – God forbid – actually SEEING.

I ponder what company you will be to yourself in your house or your mansion with nobody else (all alone)… Maybe not now, but just wait for a while and you’ll age, and you’ll moan, and you’ll wish you were home with your path and your decisions and your personal mission… and I’ll envision (through my second sight: a premonition) a TRUE vision of you enslaved to your fantastical and ‘brave’ dream of nothing but perfection; of washing your life of mistakes like erasing infection… but it’ll all be fake… And, sure, it’ll be your cake and you can eat it too, but don’t go waving it in MY face. I don’t want any of yours, no matter how hungry I feel, and regardless how poor.

You are a disgrace. I don’t need a cake to celebrate my present state or my coming fate. Nor would I offer you a bit from my own plate. The less of you I see the more I satisfy me, and my larger-than-life conscious mind will be FULL for eons more time, which is far, FAR longer than you’ll ever, in your ‘right mind’, be privy, or one day, ‘destined’ to find.

Now that’s a party in my opinion – perfect, infinite, and exquisitely divine.

You are not distant, and your memories are not far away, but it feels so, absence makes the heart grow fonder as well as other things
the way i feel, have felt for you has always been more than ***.
though its definitely a part of it - id devour you in heart as well as body.
you give my heart a *******, a heart-on.
you make my emotions libidinous and my mouth ravenous
You give me an affection *******.

As a writer we all understand that need,
the urge inside you yearning to escape through
the written word
the word you inscribe with your thoughts
onto the paper of a phoenix, born anew
as each failed sentence crumbles it
to ash

There's a magnificence in your face
and a gentle underside that leans me inward
your cute curved lips tremble as I slide
my hand up your skirt

There's a flush of the cosmos on your face,
and the cosmos are vast
like our minds, the cosmos bends
to the will of energy

For everything that is final
there was a begininng so we must ask
where have we been?
the ramblings of madmen conduct
our code and ethics
but those still mad run among the streets
unnoticed, like a raven.

And as I think of the woes of the mother,
her blue marble is but a tear in the eye,
of a life infinitely larger
the will is not there
you must understand its not in my hands

I am trapped inside
and I will shut the windows tonight
But still as the rain hits the roof
I feel myself sliding,
slipping,
falling.

This was once a construction site.
Unpainted concrete walls, skeleton of
A building exposed.

Now most floors are inhabited;
Offices in use as if they'd always
Been this clean and complete.

Some sections are still unfinished, and
The few of us still working here are
Alien shadows in filthy workwear,

Ghosts from the slow birth of a
Fraction of the Oslo cityscape.
Rugged midwives

Not fitting in with the suits and
Dresses we sometimes pass in the
Corridors.

So strange, the scent of perfume and
Female products. No more diesel and
Dust here these days.

My colleague flips his cigarette **** on
The pavement outside the entrance,
Stealing a gaze at a passing skirt.

*I love the sound of
High heels in the
Morning.

taking place at bar after rare occurrence of
an early night. ordered a single whisky and tall beer.
the drunkard opposite found agreement in the random
statements i interjected between him and blonde bartender.
cheaesing his Miller to my whiskey because of false-statement
passed through these winter-warped lips. cheersing, to words
that are false belief. if only to retain him to placated  stupor.
opened book of Style, left-to-right this hand underlining sentences
and rectifying the self-criticism ever present. talking louder,
   'i just don't hear as well as i once could.'
he orders another but sends it to vacant chair adjacent mine.
stumbling, moving from his ritual spot. sitting, he claims
his upbringing as Southern Baptist. after i announced the
denomination to my rearing in childhood.
   'you're a christian, good.'    but
i don't have the heart to elaborate upon the crazed and
pantheistic beliefs i hold in truth.
   'you were baptized and saved?'    i lied,
for truth is my soul will burn in hell according to this man's
-- self-proclaimed sinner -- drunkenly spewed theological underst-
atments. his words slur as he falls into elaboration of Bible conspiracies.
adding a few
   '*****'
                      here and there,
and always in concern of his opinion of Muslims -- awkward.
my boss in background chimes; we had a similar conversation
moments before. now my words betray everything stated during
prior moment. i order another beer then excuse myself to ****.

The only thing sadder than
Not believing
In soulmates...

Is not believing,
When there was a time where
You once did.

life isn't what you make of it.
its what you've made.
life is constantly living with the aftermath
of the mistakes you've made
if you're prone to making them
it's a recurring past tense result
check-sum of your most fantastical fuckups