He said those words
I can't
and my heart fell out of its pocket
like there was a hole in my
chest and
that very last stitch
heard him speak
Our mobius strip
lay suddenly flattened
- I on one side and
he on the reverse
like destiny and distance
were the same bridge to gap

Now I want life to end
as I lean down to hold
what's left in my lungs
- my final breath leaving as
I fall beyond the edge where
by some miracle
this leap of faith might save me
and I am captured by the arms
that wait beneath
- my fate finally showing its purpose
until the only strip that remains
is the one where
we remove each other's clothing

With you
I spent my years like money
and what is left now are the shells
of every decision afforded;
the skeleton of time
the only backbone we could manage
not to crumble. Our own had weakened.

For many years
tears would leak like suicide
and I became an expert swimmer,
the apostrophe of all my strength
the board on which I’d surf;
later, the oar with which my raft would be paddled.
I cried an ocean
but still couldn’t willingly drown.

Of late
I ceased believing that I lacked worth
and stopped just existing to pay the karmic debt
my reasoning concluded I must owe.
I unshackled and chose to live outside the cage.
Giving up on failure gave me purpose.

Without you,
the tangible clutter we gathered gets dusty
and I can’t decide if I should blow it clean
or leave these fingerprints to remind myself why.
In shedding the weight of commitment
I am no lighter, but my kaleidoscope
now dazzles like a jewel.

In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core

We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost

We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing

Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer

But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory

I fear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time

Her honey'd hole a wet, *******,
her liquid gold a silky stream where
sliding thrusts were mounted, hot,
and arching bodies dared not stop;
where moments flowed into the next
and both were drowned in comfort ***
and eyes were riding each one's soul:
his quest for freedom her only goal

And rather than come up for air
this fiery passion sank them there,
(as both an anchor, 'twined like rope,
and locked in pelvic gyroscope)
her swollen thighs around his waist,
her nails embedded, tongues embraced
and fishing for that final taste
with every touch, in every place

Fused as one with melting cores,
(her curling toes demanding more)
his urgent need to plunge her rightly
sealed them closed with hearts bound tight, and
all around them
walls of water washed their sins
in quickening waves that locked them in
with swats and spanks
and gentle yanks and saucy stares
while skin to skin and hand to soaking hair

Like rolling tide to rocky shore,
(her legs thrown wide, his pelvis sore)
the crash and grind of karmic ties
were deep explored and fast revived
- with whispered greed they came alive -
awash with ***** un-restraint and
thrived, un-reined, with fate to blame,
their pulsing needs through every vein,
infused as one and charged by same:
her wild release on which he came
an ocean, calling out her name

Led by foreign madness, we
- to long expected sleepless graves -
will swim to sink and drown in numbers
weighted down beneath the waves
with nothing left inside but shadows;
no-one left of worth to save

In one end and out the other,
warring with psychotic pride, then
born again and made to suffer
- karmic purpose ill-forgotten -
each new chance at life, a buffer:
"Next time: change..." we chant inside.

Cycles written, history leaking,
sorely weeping through the pores
of growing wombs and offspring born
- another child of soulless form -
to breastfeed lies, imprisoned, shrieking
time again: disease repeating.

Sin ingested (soup for poor)
- the bile of shame and burden lost -
as people starve and lives are sold
and terrors planned to mind control...
and all the while our sickened bodies
hover, rotting, rank with worry.

Toll the bells - it's time to breathe
and **** this horror from our conscience;
steer ourselves towards a pardon,
pave the way, resume our garden
seeding spirit, heart, and mind
with growth to bloom for one last time
or we, the people, incarnating,
won't survive beyond our mating.

Piece by formless piece of me, compose of new desires:
write me back to life before my hope, deterred, retires.
Inflate my heart until it finds itself in soothing flight
and sprout for me the wings I need to beat its rhythm right.

Expand my lungs to fill with life and bleed this void no more;
to breathe ambition in until it seeps from every pore.
Expression filled with written words, my storm to self-empower,
yet, in this silent wash of time I very humbly shower.

Find within my shadows proof of flawless, lustrous light;
elucidate my purpose, forming day from cloudy night.
Write of peace, a balm, to heal my bleakly fractured power -
a vision, rich, to seed and plant, and soon, I hope, to flower.

Inspire my eroding soul with passion to ignite;
a reason to awaken, fresh; a fervour to incite.
Harmonise expression to unlock what I admire;
write me back to life before I, sadly, might expire.

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.

somewhere
there is a space
where I will find myself
amongst the dust that falls so calmly through the air.
I’ll find my purpose lingering there.

meanwhile
I’ll stay partitioned off from ghosts
and other 5th dimension beings –
sharing this part of the room
with my cold desire to belong.

carnal lightening reaped my brain in verves of
sickled fever, emotion sloughing clean
my tortured psyche.

and who was I to challenge
this narcotic self ablution –
yet, what of my resolve to linger
undisturbed
in bias mental disarray?

pathetic hypotheticals
engorged my blood
as nothing new.
the tension burning scars within this
manic unenlivened carcass
grew until

my hybrid self assaulted what was once
unfailed but often wrong integrity
as swifter than a scarlet blade
my conscience was absconded
to a heaven: peace, release, and ease.

had I commanded armies to retreat?
my palsied mind
was finally worth its ****** ground
and tissues thick with matters
fed on independence
lost among the strain.

I must remember where I left my genius.