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.

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.

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

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

Falling fast down hovelled stairs,
digesting wealth to ransom cares,
grotesque men who soil and harrow
suspend my dreams from thinning rope.

As discharge weeps from places raw
and blisters burn a molten core,
another phallus, soiled and poisoned
wants for smack and *****’d ******.

I bleed from wounds so deep within
of pain so stark and crude and raw
that pins me ‘neath the brine of sin
like drowning prey in ***** and ****.

I fail to dim the moving shadows:
those twisting jerks of spewed release –
but coming soon will silent growls
of dripping fat and blistered guilts.

Voiced within me, vague and distant,
something cries, yet tears withdraw.
Copious unheard pleas are buried;
here lay I, unknown, destroyed.

To burrow past unhuman men
(to further seal a keyless lock)
would ‘splay me in the public eye,
exampled, maimed, defeated; lost.

Phlegm and fur may line my mouth;
engorged, my lips, a ***** for more.
But somewhere deep inside myself
I’ve walked away from Brothel Shore.

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

concrete emotion
part water, part sand,
stiff and retrodden
imprinted by hand

unbroken dazing
obsessive addiction
weathered disfigurement
stolen ambition

frozen with purpose
externally veined
denied all surrender
exhausted terrain

captured in burden
expressionless pain
mindless estrangement
decisively plain

distantly suffering
obsessive beliefs
helpless remorse
escaping relief

painful receding
numbless appeasement
gone now, the bleeding
here, quiet, the easement

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.

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.

Concurrent sessions of geometric,
(explicitly whimsical)
liquified squares
arose from patterned nether regions
of ‘somewhere else out there’
in smothering particles of
truest radiant flares.

And sat I upon the visible dreamscape space
that existed no-where
but outside of my illusory plan,
and cherished, I, the pictorial preempted
in the moment of my after-life birthing
of which polite demand
again beseeched me ride.

Yet not a one of the graphical displays
(filtered fresh from infinite dimensions)
approached me like a complete whole
– neither a partial whole –
but as a synchronistic sphere
of clouded systemic rumours
made to halt to keen attention
but one light-bodied and mirrored virtual soul
such as the sporadically alter-egoed I.

Flowing from one source to the next,
beyond the simple measure of a single point
a blast of knowing flagged a recognition spark
that folded time and space
betwixt one universal structure
unto the
(not unlike symbiotic)
self instructioned mind –
and so to Mind Exist described another route
for Love to spread It’s fastest cycle;
birthing cells and growing rife,
to yield a fresh creation.

And hereupon I watch/ed with hunger
that which transpired time before,
providing what is harnessed now,
with will to still repeat again,
and so again to knot forever
into chains of new momentum;
weaving,
waving,
slipping through and marking too,
another path to God.

(meaning: wisdom that is incomprehensible to one of ordinary understanding or knowledge)

Alone, let me dissolve into the stale persistence of repeated memory, where,
to sink, into that moment, long at last, I will;
to time that stained my white and holy life like thick excreted waste,
as lost among the black apostles, self detest infection festered.
My soul did roast my psyche.

Let me watch through wiser eyes as I was suckled dry by rogues and devilled men who
fed me lies and praised degraded hopes in tight knit ******* ropes and
prayed their symbiotic futures whole;
their shackled lives, encased by squalid dwellings, ***** to empty, burnt to coals. Then,

let me fear again the death I cheated, let me shy away again from light and love,
as once I did,
and let the drugs inspire hunger, let my ribs admonish friendships;
show me seated on the sharpened iron throne that clawed its way into my life.

Let me remember courage, this, when biting clean the straps
that bent my arms behind my back,
that tied my feet without allowing slack, that stole my mind, that seared my life,
that scarred my flesh and sent me running, set me free at last
from final unforgiving seas that tempted me with futile guarantee
to nurture, care and carry me.

Let me, lastly, naked, stand in stark surrender, found by precious realisation.
Finally human once again! Majestic once again! While
chains of brutal, rusty, rotted steel detach,
and I begin to heal; to patch at last, my puzzled life that, muzzled,
once,
I hanged among
such sordid ruin.
Now a sequined future wheel rotates as I transition
from a past so art surreal,
so **** unreal,
and yet, a history, sad, but passed, that’s mine, alone to boldly feel.

The Man who never brought hell home
was wise beyond his years.
He suffered long
but lived it loud
imprisoned by his fears –
and those were thus:
that those before him
came and went
with nothing left but
pain and name
and more of same
who went and came
from seed in soil
to root and stem,
to fallen branches, time again:
a family tree to fuel the flames
on cold and lonely nights.

Embodied by the coat of arms he wore,
this Last to hold his name,
he swore,
– in vain, perhaps –
to stand at ease no more.

The Man who never brought hell home
encased himself in spite and spirits;
ghosts of generations gone,
encroaching deep within.
He sought for answers,
fought for reasons,
questioned why his bloodline grew
to fall and rise
and curse and ****
with secret lies
and stolen rights
and ties he could not sight.

The Man who never brought hell home
had died
the moment he arrived
– or so he thought –
he always said,
with eyes in search of something else . . .
perhaps that love that once he’d felt,
despite the years of crime he lead.
And what is left, again, but holes
to fill with buried woes
and broken war-like games
and shattered dreams
and darker still yet, nothing.
Nothing, as it always seems.

Not a sliver shall him by, it pass,
of hope,
of love,
of peace . . .
Not until the very last,
this Man who never brought hell home.

And so, this Man, with blind belief
declared his story would be brief,
atoning for the sins he cast
in other’s lives
in years that passed,
and spent his days in self destruction,
free from want, control, and need,
biding time with bated breath
like men, before, who longed for death,
entrained in mind and soul,
until one day,
the hell that never came,
came whole.

For every man,
and son of man that once there was,
who sharpened knives
and counted tools
and cleaned his guns,
and polished pride, his moral compass by his side,
who now lives to wake and wakes to die:
repelling faith, repelling truth, and cussing lies,
this Man has died.