Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,

Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.

In any case, you are always there,
Tremulous breath at the end of my line,
Curve of water upleaping
To my water rod, dazzling and grateful,
Touching and *******.
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless
You steamed to me over the sea,
Fat and red, a placenta

Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light
Squeezing the breath from the blood bells
Of the fuchsia. I could draw no breath,
Dead and moneyless,

Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are?
A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary?
I shall take no bite of your body,
Bottle in which I live,

Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes
Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle!

There is nothing between us.

Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica.
     I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that.
     Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night,  after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one.
     One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth.
     What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785.
     Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on.  But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me."
    
     The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with  Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us.
     At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward.
     Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned.
     "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned.
     The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it.
     "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection.
     "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her.
     "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone.
     I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe.
     "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below.
Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me.
     "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open.
     After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself.
     I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands.
     "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her.
     "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!"
     "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening.
     I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness.

     Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong.

     I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.

Fat;
Bubbly lipids gathering and stacking in a fashioned order.
Fat;
It was not so "fashionista" when she gained and gained.
Skinny;
She was lost, had no where to run but to the pantry.
Skinny;
Bones showing, skin glimmering in the sunlight.
Fat;
Sticking to her bones as paper sticks to glue.
Fat;
Poking and Prodding at the blubbery material that sits upon her femurs.
Unhappy;
She will always be.

Back when I was about ten or eleven, the only friend I had was the most beautiful girl I knew. Her name was Jessica and her and I did everything together. In school we were inseparable, always chit-chatting before, during and after classes. So much so that teachers bestowed upon us the annoying, yet endearing, encompassing nickname of "Jackica" - a combination of our names; Jack and Jessica. I was so thankful for her companionship, and thinking back it might have been a pretty uneven relationship, emotionally. I was an overweight and awkward Harry Potter fanboy and she was a cute little auburn-haired thing who could've won any Miss America Junior competition in the world, as far as I was concerned. She had the most piercing powder blue eyes. The kind that made my skin tingle and mouth curl up into a stupid smile at any given moment. I felt like she saw me, like she really saw ME. Not the blubbery flesh that coated my muscle and bones but what I was made of, the real me. And I loved her for that. Along with Jessica's physical blessings, she was also given an insatiable appetite for adventure. She loved to go to the park at night, after the gates were locked and when everything was drenched in darkness. We'd hop the five foot chain-link fence and roam around the grounds. We'd go the water at the edge of the park and sit on the rocks, look up at the stars and take turns telling stories to each other with intent to scare the **** out of the other one. One humid night in mid-June, Jessica told a story that succeeded in making my skin-crawl. She always told decent scary stories, she was gifted in the art of fabricating tales of fright right on the spot, but this story really got to my core for some reason. I just felt uneasy as the words spilled from her mouth to my ears and with each sentence my muscles tightened and strained just from the mere tone of her voice as she told the story. She sounded serious, and she rarely did, even when telling these stories, but with this particular one it sounded like she really believed what she was saying was cold, hard truth. What she said was that she heard a story that her older brother's girlfriend had told her. It was about a house on the outskirts of town, placed just a few hundred yards from the mouth of the woods that lined our little suburban utopia. She went on to say that in the house was nothing all that scary. She said it was an old house, a very old house, as it was a log cabin that was built in the 1700s, when the town was first being settled. Supposedly, everything in the house was just as it was back then, little kerosene lamps sitting on home-mad oak tables. The maple-wood floors would moan and creak at the slightest hint of any weight being put on them. And then she said that no one had lived in the house since the man who built it died, around 1785. Needless to say, Jessica wrapped up the story by proclaiming that we had to find the house. And we had to go inside and see for ourselves what was so creepy about it. Being the scared, chubby little wimp that I was, I immediately rejected the idea. There was no way I was going to try to find a place that would only succeed in making me **** my pants in front of a girl, especially the one whom I'd placed the delusional label of "future girlfriend" on. But, as I subconsciously expected, Jessica talked me into it with just a few graceful words: "I'll kiss you if you come with me." The very next Saturday night, Jessica and I put on some dark jeans and t-shirts and took the bus all the way to the last stop, the edge of town. We hopped off and right in front of the stop the woods were already waiting, I took a deep breath as Jessica's eyes lit up. She took my hand and pulled me as she ran, me clumsily waddling along behind her all the way to a little dirt pathway that paved the only marked entrance we could see. She asked me if I was ready and I shrugged, saying something like "I'm as ready as I'm ever going to be." And so we started down the path. As the tall trees swayed in the wind, I dragged my feet with Jessica always about five feet ahead of me, as eager as ever. We walked for probably ten or twenty minutes before the foot of the cabin was before us. At first sight, it was a very old structure. I'd never seen anything like it outside of paintings in my history textbook and this Abe Lincoln documentary I saw on PBS. I never knew houses like that stood the test of time. But there it was before me, two stories high with wooden shutters clad in severely chipped paint and a big oak door that looked stronger than any door I'd ever seen. Jessica took my hand again, smiled enchantingly and rushed me forward. Once at the door, I was speechless. It didn't look as old as the rest of the house and whoever made it obviously meant for it to last a very long time, taking extreme care in carving it out impeccably and sanding it until it shined with a professional touch. Without a word, Jessica rapped on the door. Three hard times, and when no one answered after thirty seconds, she rapped again, and again. She shrugged and turned to me, asked if we should just go in. I said no and she frowned. "There's no way we came this far just to go back home with nothing," and then she wrapped her hand around the rusted doorknob and turned. The door opened with no hesitation as she pushed it all the way in. She stepped inside, and I followed. The first thing I noticed inside the cabin was the creaking floors. They creaked louder and longer with each step, affirming that part of the story, making my blood run cold. We looked around, going from room to room with wide eyes. We were amazed that we made it, that we got inside and now we were actually investigating a place that no one else supposedly had gone before. Truth be told, though, it was nothing special. There wasn't much at all to see, save for a few tables, the creaking floors and some very old paintings on the wall. We were just leaving when we noticed something on a table nearest the big oak door. It was a metal box with a small lock fastened to the front of it. "We have to open it," Jessica proclaimed after a second of curious inspection. "There's no way were going to find the key," I told her. "So we'll break the lock, Jack. Duh," she replied in her sassiest tone. I just shook my head as she grabbed the box and began to furiously slam it in the wooden table. The sound echoed through the house, exacerbating it and making me shiver from head to toe. "I don't know if you should keep-" but my sentence was cut off my the lock flying off the box and clinking onto the floor below. Jessica smiled again, very pleased with herself and looked to me. "Wonder what's inside...," She said, lifting the top half of the box open. After an initial and cough-inducing puff of thick dust subsided, the contents of the box were revealed. It was a letter, written on old-school parchment in heavy ink. In neatly laid Victorian script, the likes of which I had never seen so simultaneously neat and scattered, like it was written in a hurry or during a time of distress, was a love letter. Well, a kind of love letter. It was addressed to a woman named Tania and it was signed by a William. It told the story of how William had loved Tania since they were children, and Tania was now to be married to a Pastor named Hensley. William told Tania how he couldn't bear the thought of her ever being with anyone else and that the fact that she could never truly be his was killing him. Literally. He ended the note by confessing his plan to **** himself. I took a step back, but Jessica just stood at the table with her eyes glued to the crumbling parchment in her hands. "I'm leaving," I said after a few moments, mulling over the sorrow that this poor man must've felt. I headed out the door, Jessica following. The walk back through the woods to the bus stop I couldn't get this feeling of dread from subsiding. It seemed like I felt what William felt, but not in a sympathetic sort of way. It felt like I was William and the pain he felt was actually my pain. And then I noticed that, rolled up tightly in her fist, Jessica had taken the letter with her. "Why'd you take that," I said, sounding thoroughly upset. "That's not yours to take, go bring it back!" "No way. There was no way I was going there and coming back with nothing to show for it," she said, gripping the letter tightly, her knuckles almost whitening. I knew how stubborn Jessica could be and I knew whatever I said probably wouldn't even phase her in the slightest so I did what I did best and just shrugged it off. I found myself wishing I could shrug off the terrible feeling the letter put deep inside me just as easily as I could Jessica's stubbornness. Over time, Jessica and I lost touch, as kids of that age often do. I grew up, lost weight and opened up, making more friends and acquaintances, no longer hanging onto the thought of Jessica being my only love. I didn't talk to Jessica all that much. Just once in a while we'd meet up and have a chat over some coffee or pizza. We had both changed and morphed into young adults with different agendas and dreams and I had no problem with that. But on one such meeting, Jessica began to worry me. She said that every now and then she'd open her desk drawer and take the piece of parchment out and read it. Over and over again. And lately, she had been opening the drawer more and more, she said that she felt drawn to it. Like something about it made her feel this deep-seated dread that no horror movie or scary story had ever made her feel. She said that she felt like the letter was beginning to take a toll on her. And, by the look of her, it didn't seem like she was lying or kidding around like she always used to love to do. She had dark circles underneath her once striking eyes, which were now darker and had taken on an odd and ominous color. I was scared for her. And I told her so but she hugged me and assured me she was alright. I wanted to believe her, and I tried to, hugging her back and telling her I'd talk to her soon. But when she turned her back I knew something was very wrong. I'm writing this now because a few weeks ago Jessica's mom gave me a call. When her number came up on my cell phone, I think I knew, deep down, e actor why I was getting this call but I pushed the thought away and said hello. Jessica's mother called to tell me that a few days before Jessica had gone missing. The only indication to her whereabouts was a note she left with the words "cabin at the edge of town", and below that, instructions on how to get there. Her mother said she took the note and hopped in her car immediately, and made it to the cabin. She said she was breathless by the time she got to the cabin but forged on and barged inside and looked around. She said she found nothing and was about to leave when she noticed a small door behind the big oak door she had swung open to get inside. She opened the little door to find a stairwell. She climbed it, calling Jessica's name all the way, sobbing and wiping tears from her eyes. At the top of the stairs was the attic. And she said she almost died herself when she saw Jessica. She was hanging from a wooden rafter on the ceiling. And next to her was a severely decayed skeleton, dangling from a rope only a few inches away.u

I can tell you’ve never been touched
like a hurricane doesn’t matter
like 40 below or a deep papercut between your
thumb and your index
couldn’t do any more harm
than a teddybear or marigold —
but that was
before me

before me,
you’ve never been touched
and you’ve never touched
quite like
dissolving  
into the fresh dew on dawn’s grass
and you’ve never stopped
to feel your ****** like stopping to
smell the roses on a worthwhile jaunt
or the daffodils
or the lilac trees, purple and white
or to smile at a happy sunflower
like all of your little hesitancies and horrors
are of little to no caliber

before me,
you’d never go a night without at least a sip of something,
you’d never give yourself
a chance
to be yourself
in the sober light of love

you’re shy and you avoid it
but if you counted the number of empty wine & beer bottles
on your balcony,
you’d finally know
you ought to stop pouring at night
and figure out how to explore at night;
dip your fingers in gooey paint and smear every colour
on the pavement
for hours and hours
until the sun awakes
like you have the power to love

even if

it aches

and at first, it will, like frostbite,
like papercuts all over your palms,
like cartoon cliff jumps that can never **** you,
like getting fired or evicted or rejected
because remembering something
as fierce and as merciless
as love
is heartbreakingly overwhelming
for the fact that

you had

forgotten

and forgetting does not make you strong or shrewd
it’ll only ***** you over
and give you a blubbery beer belly and empty bottled balcony
and before me,
I’m pretty sure you thought your life was a tragedy
because drinking feels nice and *** releases hurt
but I’m just not interested in being with an alcoholic,
so it’s best we stop taking off our shirts.

I dropped more today.
From the gelatinous 180 last August
To my blubbery 156
I thought this would go faster.
She told me it would.

Emily is like this corpse, you see…
How they’re always on your mind, haunting.
Her ***** stained face, flashes, like a memory
“This is where you’ll end up. Just ******* wait.”

I’m not scared. I promise.
But I don’t trust her pretty.
Not completely.



UPDATE:

I tried to ignore the urge to throw up.
But now that I gained all of my weight back,
I'm throwing caution to the wind,
going to college and
starving this fat away.

I pledge 177 to plunge to 140 by Thanksgiving.

Two meals and one long night have past since last we ate hot food.
Sore and sleep deprived, we're in a fire-breathing mood.
A line of chatty fobbits and fat civilians stretches long.
In this line to chow we, warriors in a war zone, do not feel like we belong.
The mortar alarms' warbling screech fills the air.
The lanky, and the blubbery run with for bunkers, motivated by the scare.
We stand defiant, sore, and hungry in the open ground.
Tempting unlikely, unlucky death.  We ignore the sound.
The alarm shuts off.  An amplified, embarrassed voice says, "Ehh...false alarm."
Dear sweet idiot:  Thank you!  There's no harm
In clearing out the line.  We waste no time laughing and running to the front of the line.
Your inattentive idiocy almost cost lives before in this war.  But you are forgiven this time.

hows your love life
are you somebodys exwife
do you lie fat and cry
blame him and not try
does the single life taste bad
try another old picture want ad
you say your fat but youre fixxing it
but you still want a man that is bank and fit
im a fat wallet dude sweet *** on to sit
but ill pass on your jabba **** blubbery ***
youve wrinkled your envelope really bad
you still claim youre beautiful wow thats sad
far from your sloth nest is where i will fly
and grind my hips on some younger thin thigh
see ive got an exwife
and now i love life

O! I went to the loo to do a number
    two
Only one cubicle was vacant, the rest
    they were all taken
"Looks like a full house today" I
     thought to myself
Man! I was bustin' to go
As I sat there on my throne in my
    cockpit all alone
There came this funny rumbling
    sound from down below
And then, this fearsome volley.... a  
    fantastic farting
And then, a great release
As finally I dropped my bombs with
    studious aplomb
O! what a relief !

"Man! ", I said to myself, " I must
      lay off that Aloe Vera juice
That stuff it goes right through you "
But then, something strange, from the
    cubicle right next to me
Came this other big thunderous ****
    explosion
A big fat blubbery balloony one
It sounded like a tuba gone wrong
And then! And then, another one! this
    one further down the line
This time a big bubble and squeaky
    one
And then! yet another! a funny little
    flute-ey one
Like it just squirreled out in the nick
    of  time
And then finally, another!!! a big Big
    Bellow like from some wonky
        trumpet
A real rasper, he must have thought he
    was doin' the solo
Man! It was so funny, one right after
    the other, you had to laugh
It was.... well, it was Gas !!!
Lucky no one struck a match
Or else it might have been... yea!
    Jumpin' Jack Flash !!!

It was like listening to a whole scale of
    *** notes
Such a strange symphony, these
    wondrous excursions in Sound
For a moment there, it reminded me a
     bit of Beethoven,
It was no celestial choir that's for sure
It was something altogether more dire,
Like something you'd hear in a
    farmyard byre
The animals all gathered at the trough
It was like all the bottoms were
    conversing with one another,
        having a chat
Plotting a rebellion even, an uprising,
    a coup d'etat
Against that other much more
    celebrated Opening
That much vaunted Hole in the Face,
    the Mouth!
That puffed up preening Prima Donna
    with his preposterous outpourings
His Monstrous, pompous inflated Self-
   importance
Sitting up there stuffing himself and
    forever spouting nonsense
"Sure, we do all the work down here",
  the Bottoms were saying, " and we
    talk a lot more sense as well"
They posed the question "Can a Bottom speak more Truth than a
    Mouth ?"
These defiant derrieres, these proud
    posteriors
With their proud exultations
Sticking a firm ******* up at that so-called world of respectability up
     there
That world of petrified good manners
Suffocating! Oppressing! with its
    stifling mores and traditions
Yea!....for sure, the rebel Masses, they
    were just a bunch of Bad *****.

O! the air it was blue just like Pepe Le
    Pew
I could have sworn I seen a big blue
    gaseous cloud ascending
Heading up toward the ceiling
Like a great Cloud of Unknowing
    except with a bit more foreboding
Reminded me of William Wordsworth
    & his lonely cloud a-wandering
But then I thought, did Wordsworth,
    Shelley or Keats ever write
An Ode to His **** ?
Was it too dark a side to show, too
    dark a place to go
The Dark Side of the Back Side
The Dark Side... of the Moon.

Pepe! Pepe Le Pew, that old Don Juan,
    Casanova of the old cartoons
It was then, my Love, it was then I
    thought of you
I smiled and said to myself"I know
    what I'll do
I'll blow out another sweet blue
    raspberry one just for you....
Oh yea!....that one was lovely, that one
    was true
I think that one had your name
    written on it
O!  I do".

And now as Pepe might say " Adieu! adieu!.....Sweet, sweet Adieu! ".

                       Ende

A love poem for Terry Collett

**** it, not a single word affixed,
and tears come gushing, flooding my cheeks paths,
into my mouth comes the salty outpouring

my nose blubbery, it’s hard to type
when you can’t see and the tissue is
engrossed, engrasped in your only
good writing hand

a lovely Sunday by the Atlantic coast,
listening to 60s folk and rock n’ roll,
mostly love songs of seeded sadness,
simplistic so many tunes of heartbreak
long ago planted in our respective souls

each one reminds, restores,
a heart poking,
all your recollections penetrate,
as if I was nearer to thee,
and I too, weep,
missing your Oliver

be advised there will never be enough poems
to make one/me not want more,
for ****** you, these love poems into my interior,
learning from you the human

how

so much more than
the when where and why one loves
a child resolutely, absolutely

for each child the unique reasons differ,
but never the

how,

for you, of this,
are the the poet exemplar

this makes me weep
for so man-many reasons,
strangely, a stream of delight
runs sweeter deeper within my tears,
for which I thank you
with this
love poem

UFO

I believe UFO exist it would be strange if they didn´t
considering the many planets in the vast galaxy.
I have not seen a UFO person close up with the exception
of my face in the morning before coffee.
The picture I have seen is always at a distance
and tend to be grainy.
Some people insist they have been captured by UFO,
analyzed and sent back to earth again presumable because
the UFO being found them of no interest.
The UFO world does not call us human but the strange
blubbery beings with a penchant for killings and fighting wars.
They, the UFO is petrified by us keep their distance
hence “grainy photos.”
Still, I believe the UFO people are a friendly sort all we have
to do is to stop wars, be polite and they will come to us
not necessarily in human form, and show us how it is possible
to move so fast through space and defy gravity.

My poetic side COSMOFUNNEL
wordsmith thanks tumblr in his noggin
ofttimes triggering babbling brook
to swell after deluge
becoming stream of consciousness runnel
carving, gouging, and liquidating topography
qua zee mow toe natural formed tunnel.

Digitally remastered and revised
since original version rejected, thus
writer released,  purposely leaked,
and flooded mass media
courtesy the following
self branded watershed vaunted unabridged
sprawling questionable and deplorable
creation loosed upon unassuming readers.

Analogously linkedin with
once upon a time
one doodling dandy Yankee slender man,
whose yang upended, overshadowed,
and eclipsed mine yin,
nevertheless, now yours truly self anointed
as an elder statesman - ha
gifted with unwanted
inxs of abdominal adipose tissue
(attributed to agent provocateur of aging,

which affects my metabolism
and/or courtesy
unwanted side effect reaction
from one or more
of the eight medications
nurse practitioner
at Penn Psychiatric Center
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania location
Elizabeth Clark prescribes),
which gained weight foments tussle

a fight to the death, I can never win
and alternately titled: arm ugh gut tin
yours truly loathes to mensch shin
one alien looking pear shaped
humanoid with redskin
liposuction advised courtesy Doctor Quinn
(a fictional character and magician,
I took poetic license
created above to help eradicate body dysmorphia),
she waved her wand and ****
transformed me into a puffin.

Aye dread getting undressed
and/or getting washed
even without spectacles
thar haint no mo' six pack ab,
which nearly rock ribbed
mid equatorial zone shape shifted
into corpuscular blubbery
ancillary physiognomy
where aye wanna bab
bull posttraumatic stressed out

middle age battle of the bulge
in summer re: a waisted effort
squarely (er rather roundly) testing
the elasticity of extra large sweatpants,
when straining to hide expanding girth
definitely producing undesirable effect,
(especially when floating in briny deep,
I squarely, honestly and closely resemble
the Chinese brother
who swallowed the sea  

strongly urging, necessitating,
and exhorting mister crab
to clamp down with pincers,
viz primitive liposuction,
whence rustling scupper
will efface this fleshed out
human bloviated ruggedly handsome
man of the webbed wide world
a bit heavy around the equator
over self indulgent fleshpot

unable, uneager, unready,
and unwilling to maneuver
his portly ill proportioned body
inducing unprovoked stares,
and tears for fears
eyes tracking billowing supersize shirt
resembling trireme sails being trimmed,
where fleshly freighted sloop
displaces entire watery expanse
stranding, stinging and starving an a ray

of underwater species,
now prolonging requisite inhalation;
I seek desperate sticktoitiveness
guidance courtesy Younan Nowzaradan
with steely mettle
hie trite to iron out flab
thus tis part and parcel of senescence,
yet auxiliary buttressed dermis
effect forming gorged girth
giving "love handles" grab

reigniting reign of terror
viz prepubescent anorexia nervosa,
boot strapped now - wen
remembrance of things past frankly
zapped distorted self-image
evoked holocaust images repugnant;
buttery rolls of fat insta jab
stubborn thoughts of self-loathing
entice me to become a lab
bore a tory guinea pig/
scapegoat role to restore

prime of life build when five foot ten
obviously me no Lemuel Gulliver
alignment could now perchance nab
first place in a slick couture magazine
from the neck down,
cuz face mottled with
nine inch nails clawing skin
wrought unsightly scab
taut torso bearing
fashion model and
senior citizen idol, where
every place I go receiving
venue offers free tab.

To stand stock still until shutterfly
would SnapChat
rippled tummy, could
fill my hungry wallet with inxs of cash
now, aye haint so gorge ***,
WhatsApp with
faux pregnant protuberance,
though thankfully
derriere still rather dash
shing, which palmolive pilot sized buttocks

doth newt offset sorry to report
lost battle of the bulge,
where diet tribes furloughed in a flash
abandoning their respective stations,
gnome hatter sinusoidal
parabolic frontispiece finds me to gnash
my toothless mouth for lack of means
to stave of the depredations
of slump pin proletariat
allowing me a hash

sheesh priceline tag
with hefty weight, acquiescing
this Pillsbury doughboy blivet
to subject himself to the sharp
stings of a cool whip lash
bearing the snap against
raw skin as due process
and supplication for atlas shrug
gin his broad shoulders
at the fountainhead naming me mash
shew Scott in regard to oblate inflation
insulation fiberglass around midsection, and

how ma late mum
(an avid fan of doctor Carleton Fredericks,
who preceded Mehmet Oz), would quash
the love she showered on this sole heir -
resorting to exhaustive palliatives -
even ear rash
shun null gambits,
and as last ditch effort
putting this offspring
on par with an albatross -
vamoose get out with the trash
unless everything (pertaining to
indelible stubborn blubber
comes out at the whoosh she wash
Diet of worms.

Michael Jackson was killed in an avalanche yet no fan was told and
Tito sobbed when he found out that Janet had stolen Michael's gold
hidden under queen-toting Oprah's jelly belly lard *** jiggly fat fold
in the hard, frozen-cold dawn, 'neath the blubbery sheath of blubber
that made kin-queer Oprah's jelly belly hard **** bounce like rubber
on the garden path 'tween the 2 pretty shrubs of Roger the Shrubber
that could be made of fir trees if not for a preponderance of lumber,
of the soft-pine variety that make cheap coffins for dirt-nap slumber
with big-thinking worms & where Obama's ***** ain't no cucumber

In a closed door speech Saturday April 10th, 2021,
thus far, he accumulated $85 million so far.
*     *     *     *     *     *       *     *     *     *
The glory of Republican Party
once again heats up at Mar-a-Lago resort,
where agitation poised to strike on the brink
presidential election 2024
jabbering incites gotcha -
ha ha ha, he heinously cackles
humiliation, nauseation, repudiation...
(courtesy Taj Mahal size erected ******)

goads desecration as fete accompli *****
in hammered dented armor
of Democratic rubric, constituting:
capitalistic ethic, generic iconoclastic,
kinetic magnetic opportunistic quixotic
socialistic universalistic webbed world,
nor budging an inch when
manipulated masses swallow

his electric kool aid acid drink
what tha huff huck, –
this belligerent, dominant and
fervent hellraiser doth bungle in the jungle
decreeing tacit Marshall law
fast as a shutterfly eyewink
as his cosmic crotch grab
doth put Venus under his sway
with his Mercury hill temperament

pitches the orbit of planet Earth
tubby comb out of balance
infected by hiz anti Jupiter
damnations, excoriations, fulminations
Huzzah sing how **** derriere
didst Saturn simultaneously
crushing crucible as an Uranus
indiscriminately plopping

two hundred fifty pounds of blubbery flesh
dub ling down humming his favorite Neptune
that dost affect Pluto hoc crass sea
repeating a self coined motto –
I yam almighty, therefore no fink
simply commandeering the reins of control,
a one man military intelligence groupthink
hut triad and true dyed in the wool
rip pug in ant guise zing rogue

rejoicing tuff fool, governing and hoodwink
king the die hard fans of dictatorial,
linkedin and monarchist ink
cube bus thriving on
wielding indomitable aggression
practiced in the Art of the Deal
incorporating an unanticipated jink
iron fist rule reigning down vis a vis

pro pens heave lee and prop hen city
flashing hiz seal of approval,
which scribbled signature
doth not smooth monkey
serve hay puzzling kink
boot his frenzy to bulldoze
catastrophic, formulaic, and illogic
spells these United States of America
twill become hell

in a handbasket worth repeating
with nary a trace of the grit of link
kin, the sixteenth president,
(whose ruggedly pioneering frontier existence)
found him steady and strong,
plus soft hearted as pelt o’ mink
the epitome of former forty fifth
elected commander in mischief.