It’s ok if the laundry pile is now, a little mountain on the floor,

And it’s totally fine if crayons have created a Monet on the front door.

It’s super cool if the car smells of long forgotten meals,

And sometimes, a missing child can only be located through high-pitched squeals!

It’s ok to have lampshade hair when you drop your child off to school

And don’t worry if folks think, your legs are not shaved enough for the pool.

So what if the little black dress is a stitch too tight,

And those oh-so-white lace napkins are a strange creamy delight.

Ice cream on the counter top or coins in the sink,

The child is only “learning”, say it to yourself with a wink.

If tattoos are the only thing you see when the first “date” comes home,

Breathe a little deeper, and then go rent some chick flick about Rome.

So sit back, relax, celebrate yourself, and know perfection is a thing of the past,

Being yourself and a “fabulously ordinary” mom is what will truly outlast!

Here's a verse to make you laugh!
You make me feel like an urban giraffe,
With a fabulously long neck,
What to do with that, by heck?
I see you far above the madding crowd,
Respect from afar is allowed,
I send you my feathered breath,
What do you do with that, by heck?
Did you know a giraffe can kiss?
For you, I pray nothing goes amiss,
A verse to you, sealed in bliss.....
I see you, far above the madding crowd,
Is respect from afar allowed?

This journey I have been on has taken me to many places
some just being a state of being in my mind.
A few months ago the thought about turning forty terrified me
but here just recently I have been thinking about it differently.
Forty is no big deal and with it comes some perks I must say...
I no longer have to prove myself to anyone anymore ~ if you haven't liked me or anything I am about in the 39 years before I hit this number then odds are you still will not like me or anything I am about and I am okay with that.
I know who I am and what I want ~ I am a mother and a wife and I am a loyal friend for life. I am a daughter, a sister, a cousin and also a  niece and many many more. I like to be called a writer because that is what I am. I am a comedian at heart who loves to laugh and I am a nature lover who is a sucker for a good sunset.
I now do not worry about making friends ~ I do not have to think about going out and meeting the right kind of people or if this person likes me. I am already surrounded by the people who want to be a part of my life and have made it clear they want to be there.
So here is to me turning Fabulously Forty  ~ I am good with it and I am just thankful for being here!!

So I’m marrying this young girl, see,
it’s the second time round.
My first wife died and
I’ve been struggling and drowning.
So I'm clutching the life raft
of this girl who is beautiful and young,
who’s romantic and sure of her ground,
and she and her family believe
that I can breathe and survive again.

Me?  Can I remember how to be gentle and kind to them?
It was luck. I was lucky before.
Because now I'm a veteran of the thousand campaigns
and I’ve bayed at the moon, see,
then I hunted with The Beast.

And anyway, my first wife and I
(*******, her name is Lorayne!)
suffered, and then suffocated
before our love soared so high.
Then we danced like fireflies, fabulously,
until the future ended forever.

So how can this new girl
find ecstasy with me and, and,
you know, live happily ever after,
which is such an impossible dream,
and how can I handle all this ******* purity
and innocence and beauty and youth
and flawless skin and fairy tale stuff
when I’m so gnarled
and twisted and knotted?
You see, I'm actually deeply ashamed.
In spite of my much vaunted campaigns,
I'm really a coward.
I'm afraid I can't drag myself back and do this again.
Can we possibly become fireflies and dance in the flame?

Yes, yes, I know.
We'll swear to love and to honor and to obey
in sickness and in health
in richness and in poorness
until death do us part.
Though this formula's too cute. It doesn't mention the pain.

But there's no other option. I must try to rise up again,
and alright, once more, I'll call on the flame.
So I'll cast out my demons and force them away.
Somehow, I'll hold those monsters at bay to give you
the light and the love you say
is still there, everywhere.
You are wide-eyed and oh, so naive.
But I desperately want to believe you.
I need you.
Oh god, I hope we can love without fear.

Mike T Minehan

may the way that gives way to this accord of may be in awe of truth and not the fruits of disarray

I shall be meditating upon the roads travelled and many discoveries gather that I have unravelled

I shall curl my high excitements and misguided ambitions to unfurl what the calls of the wise unfurl and admonish

In the mist amidst the tricking twists of fits and false gists, may I hold up fists that will seize to desist and delete the disease of fallacy in curtailed wit

In the shadows dark, some pale
may I not fade into the tales of lies and manipulative games

In the guise of dames so modern and fabulously inclined to fame,
may I guage and carry my animosity into the mystery of my identity where only the genuine and real can relate

In the encounters with material and all that deters from the mystic and ethereal,
I hope to remember the real surreal to surmise the reels of fantasy thrills in graphic frills and euphonic trills

However the gigantic systems of the world in money, greed, vanity or lust, may doctor sickness into the souls of the lost and weak:
may my heart remain meek and my vision bright and led by the lens of the soul....

With or without I pray not as a religious pilgrim but a sage seeking neverending Light... ever the more grateful, harnessing the grapes of creation, worshiping a servant's code in humility.

hustling about this rash hassle of life overshadowed by pyramids and castles
remaining true to the cause even when temptation is endlessly bustling about
remember remember the hustle when you were down and out without

Behind the building,
a one hundred percent green certified building
an amazing feat of engineering-science-forward thinking
fabulously energy efficient cutting edge building
sit solar panels in the sweltering heat,
extra heat from the toxic clouds in the sky
which now envelop the Earth

There, under the panels sit a small band of sheep, who represent the
last little bit of progressive wonderfulness
visionary design and research based and proven
and the future because they eat the grass
and there is no need to use toxic fume producing
loud unnatural unsustainable lawn mower

But the grass is long dead.
It is just white and yellow and there are lambs
baby sheep who sit and pant underneath the
sustainable solar panels without a decent meal
in sight. Only stalks and yellow deadness

I suggest vitamins or supplements
after all there is no grass, only grass out
that is watered sustainably and is carefully fenced off
from the living sheep underneath the dead panels
behind the dead building.

Outrage from the forward thinking cutting edge
Wi-Fi custodians of the cement and metal building and panels,
panels that emit a high pitched hum
from a hot metal box and regulate the CO2 in each room automatically
The sheep are there to eat the grass
if you feed them, even to make them healthier
so that they may get up out of their hot suffering
and eat some stalks in addition to a little bit of supplemental feed
they will not eat the dead grass, and they are there to eat the grass
they are not there to be comfortable or healthy they are just sheep
But sheep are only living non human feeling beings
and not part of the forward thinking cutting edge metal and cement
technology that is worth a lot of money and was written up
in the paper and got the custodians attention and recognition.
And they are just suffering, hot, miserable animals
and despite all of our technology, Mars landing
solar panels to electricity advance thinking technological wonders
our compassion and empathy remain tight and selfish
and the dead things, not the living ones, are what we value

It lasted only few days.
Almost non existent and unnoticed,
considering the long life span of a modern human being.
But it has left me with an ache in my heart,
a constant tug, **** and awakening of my extreme "singleness".

Maybe it was the smile, the deceitful truth in the eyes;
Definitely the caring, re-assuring voice and the gentle touch.
The fun filled atmosphere and the care free life style,
surrounded by youth, sun, energy, laughter and delight.

And that was you...

But on the other hand was an actual person with an actual heart;
With genuine emotions and a hope for a new start.
Willing to give, to trust and to let loose.
Fabulously charmed, ecstatic, oblivious and so very true.

And that was me...

There was you, there was me and apparently a "her".
Later I knew but I just wanted you, to love and to hurt.
There's nothing left but the memories, the disappointment and the pain.
The summer affair has turned into a cold, dark and lonely Winter's night,
and keeps haunting me again and again.

And that is us...

Cleverly-crafted crumbs created
Are fabulously fantastic when framed for framing's function,
But accurately articulated actions
Are better for freeing feeling's function.

Now I can see your
Creative crumbs are cause for chaos.
The creator capturing caring compassionates
With each wilful, worthless word.

Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm

I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover

There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain

And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat

And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas

Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best

Hi-fructose drama-nation (AKA Plebeia Ovulation-Jones), clad in a rumpled football shirt and golden sweatpants, rolled her bovine eyes, burped, then plunged into battle in the Walmart parking lot. Overweightia U.S, looking on, gestured rudely while blabbing on her phone.  America herself, standing by, talked loudly, swiveling her fat neck around with a menacing gesticulation involving her two-and-a-half-inch poisonous green fake fingernails studded with tiny rhinestones in the shape of well-known designer logos. Witnesses claimed that the altercation started when America could not find her own thong, which was lost between mountains of cellulite-rippled sweaty rolls of flesh. Splendor Obeeze, her BFF, trying to get America away from the fight scene, mooed like a feral heifer, then barked at her ex, who proceeded to taunt her while filming with his I-phone:
      Woo ooh-ooh baby Ima get wit chu den do like u cause we rollin, rollin...
Plebeia suddenly snarled at her 3 year-old daughter strapped into a car seat to leave her **** alone and then re-entered the store where she proceeded to sing to herself in the brassiere section until she bumped into her 4th toddler's baby-daddy who was mumbling into his thick beard RE tha lightweight herb he smoked wif his boy as he checked his text messages for  the freestyle lyrics by "L'il Murgatroid". The entire affair ended badly when Plebeia spilled corn-dog flavored popsicle powder all over America's thong-retrieval device. WW IV warning apps were triggered. They beeped, were ignored, failed and then were deleted. No one shouted World Staaar—u see dat? Oh shiiiittt !!
Plebeia O-J was oblivious, in any case, and strode boldly into the Walmart pharmacy section as the predatory drones prophesied in Revelation were released from the bottomless pit by Abaddon, Lord of destruction. Fabulously overweight as well, I was, nonetheless, underwhelmed by the thong itself, when it was finally retrieved from the depths of America's rumpled sweatpants, on the buttocks of which was emblazoned the final terrible message:  PINK UNIVERSITY   BITE ME.

On really good days
I'll leave a crisp five
In the back pocket
Of my ratty blue jeans.

That way when my future self
Feels as fragile as spun sugar
But tastes like burned bitterness
And needs to shake herself awake
Drag herself from chore to chore,
Convince herself that collapsing isn’t a cure,
[Though doesn’t the cold tiled floor feel refreshing?]
She’ll only have clothed in comfort:

         Her baggy gray sweatshirt,
         Consuming her body whole,  
         Making her shapeless,
         So maybe she can shape shift,
         Into a bird or a bat or a pterodactyl,
         And make the most of her new wingspan,
         Flying further from her fractured reality,
         Into a fabulously far-fetched fantasy.

        Her ratty blue jeans haphazardly thrown on,
        So worn that there are holes in the knees,
        Frayed hemline attesting to the tired trampling,
        But when she tries to shove a ***** tissue,
        Into the back pocket hoping it’s mere placement,
        Is enough to leave the memory behind her,
        She’ll stumble upon a long forgotten monetary love note.

Yes, you do love yourself,
Yes, I know it’s rough now,
In fact, I guessed it way back when,
But life is just a series of juxtapositions,
And maybe you’re in a hole dug so deep,
That you’ve burrowed out into China,
And now look, really look,
You’ve got a world of exploring to do!
But if you’re not yet strong enough to
Climb the Great Wall,
Don’t you worry,
Building endurance takes some time,
But until then,
Here’s a crisp five,
Go buy a Kit-Kat,
A can of Sprite,
And a cheap horror flick,
And never forget,
I always love you.

i sit at the plastic table alone
my friends are asking a question
to the supervisor that watches
she says no so they
skip towards me
singing in cracked voices
they get the entire room to sing
and in their fabulously split awful voices
they chant the words
that make me smile
my cheeks flushed pink
my smile wide
my laughter loud

Saw your pictures, Mom
the sadness in your eyes so calm
There was a minute when
I barely recognized your face
Shame on me
look in the mirror and see
your features have left a trace

Well your pictures look great
March 20th, 2013 was the date
An obituary photo shoot
how fabulously like you
Preparing for sad days ahead
planning like you’re already dead
Morningside Cemetery plot number six
another family member to add to the mix
Tombstone of granite
grapevine wrapped cross engraved on it
These conversations are sad but true
you only want less for me to do
I’m sorry because you love me so much
while I’m here in Chicago far out of touch
Call as much as you please
hearing your voice is the worst tease
I want to see your face now, hold you tight
please just know I'm doing alright.

O but my quest for love
(or at least some hot ***** ***)
has been a hard road, harder than gravel,
but finally I was pretty
sure that Eros' arrow had scored
a ******* bullseye
as I re-read the fifteen page email
of concentrated vile **** and obscenity
from the fabulously gorgeous teenage triplets
who were enamoured of me
and my open crotch photos;
certainly the accompanying attachments
of filth and sisterly depravity boded well
for our meeting, a picnic in the park.

My wildest dreams were exceeded
as I saw them waiting in their half-**** beauty
and, after a few bottles of champagne
and a crate of oysters (their treat),
they carried me off, cackling like ***-mad hens,
to their waiting chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce
to take me to their promised penthouse pad
for a nuit d'amour never to be forgotten;
"Where are we going girls?" I enquired
and how I screamed when they answered Scunthorpe.

I can’t help thinking
that almost every girl I meet
could possibly, potentially be,
yes, a screamer in the sack,
or better, a soul mate in the sack,
or even a confidant in a coffee shop, or anywhere.
And then they could jointly rule my kingdom
imperiously, like the Queen of Babylon,
or maybe Bathsheba, who was having a bath
when David espied her and then jumped her in his boudoir.
I suppose an exhibitionist needs a ******.
Gee. But it wasn't kosher for David, the King of Judea,
to then have murdered Bathsheba's husband, Uriah,
so he could afterwards marry her.
What? Yeah, this is all in that whodunnit,
the first tabloid, the Old Testament.
But look, I'm getting away from the path here.
What I'm talking about is girls that I innocently meet
without trying to get them in closer.
I don't spy on girls in the bath or the shower
and I don't have anyone murdered for *** or for power.
Or for anything! I'm a writer, see?
I simply imagine, inside my head,
that we all fall fabulously in love,
and blow our minds instead.

Mike T Minehan

Shards of sunlight send spasms of
sweet synergy spiraling spine-ward.
Nimbly nestling in neglected nooks
needing nourishment nightly.
Feeling fabulously free from friends
feeding off feelings of fervent frustration.
Lying in the loving lap of Lady Luck,
learning lessons lost to lust.

I wonder sometimes
If you bother to
Look at me
On the social media plane
The only plane
We the world
Can only connect with
At this point.

In the midst of the quarantine
I start braiding my hair again while its wet
My skin tans
I try to get my eyes to feel less
Tired.
My mom and I box dyed my hair
I record the many big little
Moments
In my mind
In my heart
Thinking
For later use.

And I know in so many ways I'm so lucky
I know I'm so lucky.

I am aware of the parts
That do sting like a bee
And I recognized I betrayed myself again
For a moments time
I do allow myself to get wrapped up in the drama
Of what is and what is not
And fear the unknown
The queen of making grand plans
Fearing all the question marks
That now sing and echo my name
Our names
Louder than ever.

I suppose there is a tiny bit of comfort
In the fact theres no real reason to
Feel FOMO
Everyone sits on their couch
In their house
I ring the bells of the sun
I paddle and try to convince myself
To go on walk jogs
Because the truth is
I just haven't been feeling
Super so into myself
And what I'm capable of
Lately.

So tonight
I sit in bed
With a paper towel of pumpkin coffee cake
And a glass of cognac
My wet hair in short soft braids
My mind as always
Trickles and slips over to you
And I see you fading and becoming
More & more distant
Just like they always do in a break up
And I wonder if you think on me often too
If between the pressing of buttons
On screens, on video games
On the places you hide so well
If you hear my voice
See my name, you once spelled out so often
And remember the way I tried to love you best
Intimately
Quietly
And yet with such strength.

I've been seeing this quote a couple times now
And essentially it reads:
Someone can love the way you love them more than they actually love you
And I wonder if that was us
I wonder if that was you
I wonder if really
That was me.

Its been an interesting exercise
When I think back on all the insecurity, fear
The feeling of whether or not I was enough
How I worried and griped about it all
And I knew it a bit then
And I certainly can see it more clearly now
But I think if I switch those nouns
Well, we know the rest.

I'd been chasing boys like you since I was 13 years old
I wanted to date so far so outside so dark so deep
Outside of myself
So that I could feel more alive
So that I didn't have to face the truths of myself
So that I could settle and be the better half.

I don't think that will be my reality anymore
And I sometimes have wondered if I will live a life
Of experiencing a series of people
Rather than being able to just find and choose and be chosen
By just a one.

I suppose life can be whatever you want it to be
And you can make what you want happen
I've proven that again and again
And I do hope the flames within me can simmer down
To a soft strong burn
And that an equal soft strong burning flame
Can fabulously
Mightily
And without question
Or settling
Or the need to qualify and quantify and convince myself
Its right
Can find its way to me.

Hot steel
The tighter your big and **** muscles, the stronger the ****** tension in me, from your mega powerful beauty of brutal sexuality. The sculpture of your perfect body was sculpted by the gods of eroticism, rock and rap. **** but hot steel that melts from the heat of love and arousal. You awaken in me the brutal call of lust, the animal that dominates in my mind, heart, soul, *****, passion, mixed with sensual tenderness of an endless stream of love and lust, my whole body is scarred from your claws of passion after hard ***. I am completely bound by a passion for you. An unstoppable hunger for *** overwhelms my mind when I examine you, cling to your body shapes like a **** pillow. The whole nervous system is full of love and irresistible attraction. With sincere tenderness, I reach only for you alone. Light as a snowflake, tender as a feather, dreamy as a flying fluff, an ideal barbie goddess, God is so hot, how hot, unbearably **** is so beautiful that I am embarrassed to look into your gorgeous eyes for a long time, as if a sultry lioness is looking at me with the terrible hunger of lust in the soul, with the royal face of arrogant greatness. The **** car of my dreams, with perfect shapes like a super sports car, the speedometer of love and excitement, and makes *****, just rolls over from speed hyper, everything melts and spreads, everything except your perfect body. Well, just mmmmm) well, just wow. I want to start a slide show with your photos or videos and watch the whole day on the span you are my **** hot fetish, you are a song that has been loved all my life, my whole consciousness and subconscious mind is saturated with love for you. Losing you is like losing life itself, my soul moans with pleasure from looking at your body, I get internal ******* from love, my brains don’t even think when I look at you, the bewitching endless bottomless depth of beauty immerses you like a powerful magnet in deep hypnosis lovingly ****** obsession with you I see nothing but you, the magic of your pleasure for my eyes and psyche and glistens in the light with a sugar sparkle and beckons to caress you for days on end I would have had *** with you until the elders , you are next to me, my brains and ***** are just mega excited and *****, it’s getting hotter like in a sauna, and you are becoming more and more sultry and hot in your eyes the fire of debauchery is burning and this makes your eyes super ****, you're sexier and hotter than the temptation, sultry, torrid sexier than the feeling of lust. You are more beautiful than any queen of the empress, actress, singer, **** actress, alien, goddess. For me, you are the goddess of the Internet, media, the queen of any beauty contest, fabulously magically beautiful. When I see you I just have the most powerful ******* explosion of the psyche from love and excitement, my libido just aggressively growls from your body shapes, billions and billions of men fight for your love, your beauty is above blue bloods, any aristocracy, thoughts about you are romantic, sweet sweet eroticism of true love - ****** fantasy from the perfection of your beauty. A passionate cat who sleeps sweetly only in my arms of love, covered like a veil by my wings.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich

There are lots of topper things I adore on earth,
like cats, the moon and drunken mirth
or talking, the sea and a well buttered bun,
nights drawing in or long days in the sun.
Another thing I really like is having a shower in the morning,
it’s the perfect antidote to my just awoke yawning,
the aqua blast helps remove the yearning for more bed
the watery goodness bringing vitality to my head,
the soapy woosh invigorates and vamooses my alarm’s mesh,
I exit the bathroom feeling fantastically fresh
and when I’m sat on the bus to work I think “ohh, someone smells splendidly,
oh wait a minute, yeah, it’s me!
Now although I adore gliding into employment with the fragrance of roses
I don’t always heed my cleanliness craving after dozes,
If I’ve had a alcohol drenched Sunday with lots of venturing out
my wanting for a pre work bathe goes up the spout,
sometimes I’ll awake on Monday after a drunken slumber
and feel like I’ve been covered in a ton of lumber,
and think “right it’s either get up now and scrub myself clean
or hit snooze and have another 15”
as even musing on that is making what little energy I have sap
I pull the quilt tighter and take the nap,
the tiny jot of rest doesn’t even touch the side
and before I know I’m at the bus stop awaiting a ride,
I get on and sit down still knackered as hell
and think, “what is that that stale vino smell?
Ohh I bet someone unfortunate was sat here before me,
one of those who has to choose tween getting drunk and having their tea,
someone who everyday has to have more than a few,
then the penny drops, “Jesus Si that odour is coming from you!”
I’m weary, languid, my body is sore,
and because I didn’t shower I’ve got Pound Shop wine coming out of my pores
yeah 4 for tenner cheap plonk is great to toast the end of the paid employment week
but after 24 hours without a cleanse  it pongs pretty bleak,
I’ve got eau de toillete of rotten grape reek.
I hum like I’ve slept in a pre Herculean task Stables Of Aegean that’s been dosed in a dregs of wine pump,
or stench like a on the streets Oliver Twist spliced with a wino Stig Of The Dump.
The bus pulls up to work and before I head in I think I’ll grab something greasy to eat,
ohh, congealed fat mixed with a day on the beers stink, your mates’ nostrils are in for a treat.
I slob to my desk like the unbathed thing I feel
And ponder, “that shower later better be the real deal.”
But, I don’t always rue not having a shower on a Monday because sometimes it means I don’t have the aroma of a stale wine scene,
sometimes uncleansed has me feeling serene!
I remember one unshowered Monday as I’d seen you on the Sunday I smelt of that perfume you always wear,
cos as you’re huggy and tactile it was on my clothes, some of it was even in what was left of my hair,
and as that scent reminded me of you what swirled around me was your awesome breeze,
suffice to say that day of employment passed with ease,
as whenever I got bored of pretending to look at that work thing on Excel
i’d get a hint of your fragrance and my thoughts would propel
with,
your easy wisdom and penchant for a chats
how you like Amaretto and how you love cats,
how you help out animals when they’re feeling brittle
with the tender coo of a Dr Doolittle.
You can take a piece of junk that was discarded at leisure,
decorate it with aplomb and turn it into a treasure,
you’re a burst of energy, a buzzing sprite,
a pleasure to be around, a total delight,
you’re interested in the world, and quantum theory,
talking to you is never dreary,
you bounce around the pub fabulously gassing with the many folk you see,
opening conversations with your splendid key,
**** you seem as popular as me!
Ahh, your joyful demeanour and fantastic soar,
how could anyone fail to hear your wonderful caw;
Emma every time I see you I like you more!
And on those your perfume days when I do get home, hit the shower and feel cleanliness envelop my face
I think, “you know for a ***** day you turned out pretty ace!”!

****** dope
You are a billion percent more beautiful than any other girl. With you, I feel ***** every day. Every day, youmakes me ***** more and more. ****, you're so ****. In you there is a hyper realistic beauty so natural and sensual, powerfully fall in love at first sight by a billion percent.
About such as you I dream since childhood. You are the only decoration of reality, of my life. You are just fabulously magically beautiful, sensual magic of temptation. The powerful element of passion overflows in me at the sight of you, the whole body is covered with goosebumps over the skin with joy and delight as if it overflows like soda.
Your beauty is in full control of my mind. You are my juicy ideal. A cult epochally beautiful and sure of this for a billion percent I would have voraciously kissed and licked your divinely beautiful body, it radiates a powerful charisma of passion and *** - it’s just the divinely perfect appearance of true perfection.
I love you in my thoughts for days on end.
With your very dark skin, I plunge into the chocolate sweet paradise of passion, it's like a fabulously sweet ******, romantic dream of my dreams come true, you are the limit of my sweet pink, luxury fantasies.
Your kisses are just immersion in a love-****** dope, one kiss is sweeter than another, it is impossible to stop and it is impossible to come off, and I also want to get excited. Your appearance gestures and movements - this is very beautiful ****, sweet cute erotica, sensual striptease.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich

WE ARE:

F ULL OF
L OVE
A ND
W ISDOM
S CARS

WEAR THEM FABULOUSLY.

Yes I want a ******* poem without fallacy
A poem full of fantasy
a fabulously woven fabric without a faux facade

our poems need some faeces not facelifts
fanciful fairies dancing fandangos
NOT followers of this current fad
who have fastened Poetry... with fatality

****! I'm fine with fate. But I want to be fascinated
by a farfetched farcical fable about a fat farmer farting
something that isn't churned out from this fake factory

So, to start off here is a funny poem with a **** joke:
I call my ****, 'the truth', because people can't handle it.

water flowing
freely going, fabulously
running forth
while fish are solemn, still

i bathe my hand
i beckon them
they hear me, clearly
and come forth

stopping short,
they pause, curious
waiting for instruction

my wiggling wet fingers
calling out to them
i introduce myself
i tell them, confident, fear me not

and they acknowledge
by touching
the tips
of my fingers
with their lips
and wagging their tail fins with approval.

i mean slight difficult slant ways
rhyming friction
(between 2 almost verses)
creating
that impossibly beautiful err
when it just won't Miss Dickinson's
brain funerals
fabulously feel
like a church bell
struck trembling painful resonating
notes in my skull pleasantly

I'm on a high
I'm on a high
do you want to know why
I'm on a high

the man I love makes my heart soar
in celestial corridors
he's everything a woman
could ask for

that man of mine he's so sublime
I got to have his love all the time
how good it is
that I have his

his ****** of love
is such a strong bait
and it so fabulously
satiates

I'm on a high
do you want to know why
do you want to know why
I'm on a high

We're on the culture bus to Woburn.
Our teacher's got a sculpture crush.
He talks art to us and trusts we'll learn
to treasure beauty in artistic form.
We'll see the Three Graces, god like faces.
Fabulously fashioned in white marble.
We're not to focus on their private parts,
but concentrate on carefully crafted,
sensuous, sweeping, silky surfaces,
shaping youth beauty, mirth and elegance.

Smithy says you can safely stare.
Our girls giggle at our faces,
then blush when we compare.
Seems it's unfair. What's a boy to do?

You have yet to fabulously flutter
My pupae of frozen adores
Stricken are you to utter
How from larvae to insect, one matures
Pain of stages you must endure

For as you were once caterpillar
Such simplicity of infancy
Mother butterfly placed near daffodil a
Miraculous plan of decency
Life arranged in such complexities

Little do you know, surprising?
Welcoming event so explicable
How wondrous wings of this uprising
Nature joyful and formidable
Your glory so perfectly permissible

Truly a divine intervention
From chrysalis a manifesting
These plans have set emotion
How Mother Nature has been testing
Longevity of ****** investing

She flutters on and you have come
Launching momentous occasion
Your time is near, you have become
An allure of life’s suasion
Flutter on, flutter on, all love’s persuasion

I feel so good.
This is going to be a semester to remember,
I can feel it, things are changing for me.
I haven't written anything in a while.
And maybe that's because I don't know how to write about the good.
I only know about the pain and the aching and the despair.
How do you write something beautiful that isn't tragic?
Honestly I am not sure.
My classes are going well.
I spent the perfect night with the man I'm hopelessly craving.
I have the best group of friends on the planet.
And my life is going fabulously.
And I feel good. Honestly, beautifully good.
But I miss writing.
And I don't know how to write about being happy.
There is no pain to drive me.
No sorrowful verses forming in my mind.
I am not in pain.
And I don't know how to write about that.

Question: What are you looking at?
Answer: The beauty
Question: The beauty of what?
Answer: The beauty of life.

Beautiful birds beholding beauteous blossoms.
Fresh fabulous fruitful flowers flourishing fabulously.
Spectacular supernatural sensational skies.
Everlasting exquisite estuosity eyes
Flawless falls flowing forever furiously.

He is in his rooms in the Kenmore Hotel,
Once-gracious lady favored by the ancient city’s elite,
Now tired old harlot patching and spackling with powders and rouges
In a vain attempt to camouflage the slide toward oblivion,
Only fit for unwitting out-of-towners
And those with short-term business transactions to ply
(He stays there out of nostalgia, perhaps,
Or possibly because they’d let him through the door without question
Back when that was far from a given,
Or maybe because it was the trumpet players’ place,
The story being that Bunny Berigan had once left a horn
As payment for an outlandish and fabulously overdue bar tab.)
He is holding court with a local features writer,
Another interview in another town,
(Ostensibly a one-on-one sit-down,
But his suite more like Sears the weekend before Christmas:
Band members doing walk-through warm-ups,
Friends old and new darting in and out,
Lucille frantically mother-henning the whole process)
Juggling many hats as he speaks,
Part-time salesman for semi-herbal quasi-diet aids,
Mirthful mangler of malapropos,
All rolling forth with with an air of street-level entrepreneurship,
But there is a more stolid, settled quality about him now,
The assumption of the mantle of icon
(Bestowed upon him by a continent
Far from his birth, but still)
And the time comes for him to begin the warm-up,
Starting with a high note here, a low note there,
Until he finds one note, that note,
A thing not constrained by lead sheets, acoustics,
Indeed any human construct at all.
On the street outside, two young men,
All stingy brimmed hats, narrow ties,
And not-quite top-line silk mohair suits
(Flipped in and out of the pawn shop
Any number of times, but still)
Shoes shined to a military gleam,
Walking with a gait which implies
That they are hustlers, yes,
But men of substance, nonetheless.
One of them hears the note,
And wonders aloud,
Man, who’s got a horn like that
Around this neighborhood?
(Neither of them deign to look up toward the hotel,
As, for them, threat and opportunity
Is something that exists strictly at street-level)
But his partner grunts dismissively,
Never even breaking stride,
Man, just some old **** fool
Playin’ some old tom’s records.