Hmm, good ***** is what all you guys want right?
Yeah, ******* and a bubble ****.
Get her white girl wasted, twerk'n hard,
drunk enough so you can put it in her ***.

She never had it up there before and she's
drunk enough or rollin good and strong so that
she thinks hands and ***** equal romance.

Speak a lil French or German...just a couple words
Francais or Deutch and she'll be begging for you
to fill her up with your crooked sausage right?

Yeah baby **** me good but don't
*** in me because I don't love you,
I just wanna be ******* to take my
angry thoughts away.

We all have had that one person we
really loved, but that **** fell apart,
so go ahead and pretend that it wasn't
your fault or hers or his.....

Oh man when you *** it's magnificent,
but you leave her there empty,
while you think you've given her
the best lay of her young life right?

What you don't understand is that
she wasn't in it for the ***, she
wasn't letting you do what you want
because she felt good, no matter what she said.

She only wants what you want,
which is real love,
but you two are too scared
of what that really means.;

The door to the apartment was unlocked when I got there, knowing I was minutes too late. The place was typical, exactly what I expected. Tiny kitchen with the basic bar and two swivel stools. TV on a stand and a floral pattern couch with the sliding door opening on the balcony to my right. Straight ahead was the hallway to the tiny bedroom. I gently closed the door and locked the *** and dead bolt. Walking straight ahead, noticing the bathroom door closed to my right in the tiny hallway. A queen bed in the one bedroom, red sheets and red comforter, white walls and an open closet. Fake flowers in a red plastic vase sitting innocent on a bedside table. No window and a single hanging print of Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son on the wall above a folding desk. The desk was home to a record player, circa 60's, vinyl still spinning, Brand New's The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me.
At least she died to something good I thought to myself. I didn't handle the torn remains of the acid green dress laying on the bed. She had put her shoes away and selected the vinyl before they arrived, probably had a glass of wine since there was one of those stemless glasses sitting empty on the bar. I doubted those who had come were the wine drinking type. Death was not unknown to me, neither was **** and retribution nor cruelty to make a political statement. But I did not want to go into that bathroom. I did not want to find what was left. I did not want to add her face to the long, long list of empty faces kept in record by my memory. I hate histrionics and false drama, but expecting to find the Countess gone, I reset the vinyl.

She was still breathing when I walked in. Naked except for her black hose, splayed out in the tub, a perfect 9 millimeter hole six inches above her left breast. It was two in the morning on the dot. In that moment, everything left me. All loyalty, all ideology, all thoughts of advancement, all regrets from the past. Gone in an instant. I gathered what was left of her in my arms.

It was hard carrying her down the stairs, but she put one hand through my hair and it helped. To this day I'm not sure how I found her car keys, but I do remember she whispering to me that her's was the grey Buick out front. She was dead by the time I got to the hospital.

There is a point in some lives
when those living it
must accept that the
hope and the dream
which drove it
will only ever
be that;
a hope
and
a
dream.

I always forget
that Bourbon takes longer
to hit me than any other
type of libation, including
palm wine and fermented mare's milk.

This is possibly why I never
drink Bourbon when I'm in public,
except for those few major mistakes
which always resulted in near death.

The problem with near death experiences
when completely wasted,
is that you don't realize it at the time
so that you don't get the adrenaline
rush which you were looking for to begin with.

All that's left of that sort of night
are the moments of sheer terror
in between retching into the toilet
when you remember bits and snatches
of a bar fight or racing a Harley down
A1A in your beat up Honda.

It's moments like that when I wonder
if maybe I ought to have chosen some
other, less egregious drug to ruin myself
with, something mellow like ****** or
au'natural like ****, but the potheads I know
only ever spit up cheesy rap, and let's face it
****** just makes you nod off while ****** your soul.

We all have our vices, I've said before
and personally, I'm okay with mine sometimes.

Much rather have my own personal demons
than ones that I don't know so well.

I still think it's strange when people
tell me that I intimidate them,
always have and probably always will,
especially when women tell me that,
because by being able to say
exactly what I mean and how I feel
is threatening somehow?

I've been thinking about this lately,
the disparity between how I interpret
myself, and how others interpret me;
betting that if I could take a poll to
those that had some fire for me,
they'd agree with Angela that said she
cared for me mostly because I didn't judge.

Who am I to judge though?
It makes no sense to me, for people
to think that just because I stand up straight
and can speak well, I'm sophisticated or superior?
I know my own history, the things I've done
and more importantly not done, so then
how can I look down my nose at someone
whose shoes I've never walked in?

I guess I'm getting to the part that
should have been written about a
while back, should've been examined
and accepted rather than have the manly
thing done to it and buried like a dead dream.

I did care, I could have loved,
probably should have now that I
really think about it, could have had
something worth fighting for in a
place never expected or looked for.

But I'm good at walking away,
too good at cutting people out of
my life when things just get complicated
and frankly, complicated equals very painful.

This is the life I've made for myself,
much as I may hate it, I have nobody
to blame really, since we all have our
choices and we all have to live with them.

So I'll take another shot
and smoke another Camel
hoping that I made the right
decision to walk away once more,
but knowing deep down that
the only reason I ever did
was complete and utter *******.

"Mary, why is it that thee comfort me so, when mine twelve
and the multitudes of Judea, plead for me to grant them
aid and succor in this world, when I can only promise them
peace in the next? Do ye not also wish from me things I have
not the power to give?"

"Ieshua, I have loved you all the long years of our lives, since the
moment we played with sticks and sand upon the shores of Galilee. We were children and even then I knew that my love would be filled with sorrow and longing for you. Your Father, even in those gentle times held sway over you. We were very young and I sought to kiss you when your earthly father and mother were away at the market. Our lips touched and our hearts turned to fire, and you lept away, banishing me from your sacred heart."

Years passed and Jesus the carpenters' son, Prophet and Savior yet to be
never forgot Mary of the Magdalene, she who held sway over his heart
while his Father in Heaven guided His Son upon a path unforseen.

The moment that Jesus of Nazareth, and Mary of Magdalene
may have indeed lay down together as man and wife,
matters not at all, in spite of what those angry priests say.

She and He, their Love, guides me.