The tired, old cliché –life is short—is probably more accurate than I would care to admit. With wry amusement, I have to admit that overused saying can be quite a joke to me, for I’ve heard it said way too many times, quite at the level of nauseam. Often times, I think the opposite, that life can be pretty **** long when you are not satisfied with it.

I am now at the age which I once thought was getting old, just having another unwanted birthday recently, turning forty-seven last month. As a girl, I thought anyone who had reached the age of forty was practically decrepit. Well, perhaps not, but it might as well have been that way. Forty wasn’t flirty. Forty wasn’t fun. It was far from a desirable age to be, but at least it seemed a million years off.

Surely now, life is far from over for me. Yet I must admit that I am feeling that my youth is slowly slipping away, like sand between my hands that is impossible to hold onto forever. Fifty is over the horizon for me, and I can sense its approach with a bit of unease and trepidation.

It is amazing. Many people still tell me that I am young, but even in my thirties I sensed that middle age was creeping up on me. And now I really am wondering when my middle age status will officially come to an end and old age will replace it—just exactly what number that is anyway. If I doubled up my age now, it would be ninety-four, so my age bracket cannot be as “middle” as it once was.

When we are children, we often cannot wait until we are old enough, old enough to drive when we turn sixteen, old enough to vote when we turn eighteen, as well as old enough to graduate from all those years of school drudgery, and old enough to drink when we turn twenty-one. I can certainly add the lesser milestones—when we are old enough to no longer require a babysitter, when we are old enough to date, when girls are old enough to wear make-up, or dye their hair. Those benefits of adulthood seem to validate our importance in life, nothing we can experience firsthand as a rightful privilege before then.

Many kids can’t wait to be doing all the grown-up things, as if time cannot go fast enough for them, as if that precious stage of life should simply race by like a comet, and life would somehow continue on as before, seemingly as invincible as it ever did in youth. Yet, for many people, after finally surpassing those important ages and stages, they often look back and are amazed at how the years seemed to have just flown by, rushed on in like a “thief in the night” and overtook their lives. And they then begin to realize that they are mortal and life is not invincible, after all.

I am one of them.

When I was a girl, I did not have an urgent sense of the clock, certainly not the need to hurry up to morph into an adult, quite content to remain in my snug, little cocoon of imaginary prepubescent bliss. It seemed like getting to the next phase in life would take forever, or so I wanted it to be that way. In my dread of wondering what I would do once I was grown. I really was in no hurry to face the future head on.  I pretty much feared those new expectations and leaving the security of a sheltered, childhood, a haven of a well-known comfort zone, for sure, even though a generally unhappy one.

Change was much too scary for me, even if it could have been change for the good.

At the age I am now, I surely enjoy the respects that come with the rites of passage into adulthood, a status that I, nor anybody, could truly have as a child. I can assert myself without looking like an impudent, snot-nosed kid—a pint sized know-it-all—one who couldn’t impress anybody with sophistication no matter how much I tried. Now, I can grow into an intelligent woman, ever growing with the passing of age, perhaps a late bloomer with my assertiveness and confidence. Hopefully, more and more each day, I am surrendering the fight in the battle of self-negativity, slowly obtaining a sense of satisfaction in my own skin.

I have often been mistaken as much younger than my actual age. The baby face that I once had seems to be loosing its softness, a very youthful softness that I once disliked but now wish to reclaim. I certainly have mixed feelings about being older, glad to be done with the fearful awkwardness of growing up, now that I look back to see it for what it was, but sometimes missing that girl that once existed, one who wanted to enjoy being more of what she truly had.

All in all, I’d much rather be where I am right this very moment, for it is all that I truly can stake as my claim. Yet I think of the middle age that I am in right now as a precarious age.

As the years go by, our society seems ever more youth obsessed, far more than I was a child. Plastic surgeries are so common place, and Botox is the new fountain of youth. Anti-aging creams, retinol, age defying make-up—many women, including myself, want to indulge in their promises for wrinkle-free skin. Whether it is home remedies or laboratory designed methods, whatever way we can find to make our appearance more pleasing, and certainly younger, is a tantalizing hope for those of us who are middle aged females.

Is fifty really the new thirty? I’d love to think so, but I just cannot get myself to believe that.

Just ask my aches and pains if you want to know my true opinion.

Middle age women are now supposed to be attractive to younger men, as if it is our day for a walk in the sun. Men have been in the older position—often much older position—since surely time began. But we ladies get the label of “cougar”, an somewhat unflattering name that speaks of stalking and pouncing, of being able to rip someone apart with claws like razors, conquer them and then devour them. There is Cougar Town on television that seems to celebrate this phenomenon as something fun and carefree, but I still think that it is generally looked at as something peculiar and wrong.

Hugh Hefner can have women young enough to be his granddaughters, and it might be offensive to many, but he can still get pats on the back and thumbs up for his lifestyle. Way to go, Hef! Yet when it comes to Demi Moore married to Ashton Kutcher, a man fifteen years younger than her, it is a different story. Many aren’t surprised that they are divorcing. Talking heads on television have pointed out, with the big age difference between them, that their relationship was doomed from the start. Other talking heads have pointed out the double standard and the unfairness placed on such judgment, realizing that it probably would not be this way if the man was fifteen years older.

Yes, right now I have middle age as my experience, and that is exactly where I feel in life—positioned in the middle between two major life stages. And they are two stages that I don’t think commands any respect—childhood and old age.      

I’ve been to my share of nursing homes. I helped to care for my father, as he lived and died in one. I had to endure my mother’s five month stay in a nursing home while she recovered from major surgery. I have volunteered my time in hospice, making my travels in some nursing home visitations. So I have seen, firsthand, the hardship of what it means to be elderly, of what it means to feel like a burden, of what it means to lose one’s abilities that one has always taken for granted.  I’ve often witnessed the despair and the languishing away from growing feeble in body and mind.
There is no easy cure for old age. No amount of Botox can alleviate the problems. No change seems available in sight for the ones who have lost their way, or have few people that can care for them, or are willing to care for them.  

I think time should just slow down again for me—as it seemed to be in my girlhood.

I am in no hurry to leave middle age.

Livin' out Hefner's flesh colored dreams
Hangin' with bunnys and beauty queens
Bangin' Springsteen's pleasure machines
Makin' the scene, some say obscene

Spent at the end of a hot summer day
Lookin' for needles in tall stacks of hay
Cryin' for someone whose gone far away
She's the only one who could make it okay

**** films and syphilis ruined my soul
Glossy magazines I bought and stole
Devoured my heart, left just a hole
Juvenile lust has taken it's toll

Dreamin' of Hefner's flesh colored lies
Layin' my head 'tween some *******'s thighs
Numb and alone, how I've come to despise
Can't wait until this part of me dies

the ethos of arbeit has overpowered the english speaking people, with a sarcastic notion of liebe, and made both work, and love, arbitrary, nay, nasally said: homophilic: too many phobias are spoken off, spiders in the guise of arachnophobia don't suddenly become islam! you see any gigantus aranea roaming the streets?! for the most part, i'm closer to see popes walk naked in a francis bacon sketch of the affairs... let's be honest, the holy ghost has become run over by the other spirit, the other phrase of sophia, the zeitgeist, not this church infested cockroach colony of the platzgeist with a few crimson cardinals numbed into mumbling their mea culpas ave marias... the senile old ******* just died, with: a few more thousand young men, born into a world without having to succumb to the "tender" female noir of a bambi (transgender times, live with it) harem ******* occupiers in the form of: zee heff! i'll be crying as much when, some other public personage dies... although i did grit my teeth when my great-grandmother died, managed to bite off a scalpel of tooth with my other tooth... funny, i can still tongue the canyon proof.

and it's the antithesis of the # (hashtag) generation,
namely? the súdokū...
   plus the english ******* explanation of
needing the hyphen, as a diacritical mark
to ease, sorry, forget the poncy ***** ******
talk of "proper": lubricate the dissection
of cutting a word open into alphabet street...
   it would otherwise look more like su-dough-coup
with the p in bracket form ( ), since the french
over the antithesis of dyslexia compared
to the english, they just add letters that do not,
require attendance / mention.
          but that's the case, every time i solve
this *** sushi riddle i can't but compare it to
the zeitgeist of the hashtag...
              so i perch on a windowsill like a
wake of vultures of a lion reaching gluttony scene,
and start thinking: hey, how about we pair up
and pecker off that sod of a robert plant?
give him the curly wurly momentum,
start to peck at his ***,
  and then give him a vulture's barber effect
of trichotillomania?
there's bound to be a lesson in that,
    what with ol' hef gone, we only 'ave to
worry aboot the hoff...
             ha ha... when hef met hoff,
           and the **** never stopped,
even leaving king solomon a tad bit jealous.

i sit on a pile of rubble, and call it a castle -
time ref. to counter the darwinist -
and yes, the saharan desert was once a
mountain range akin to the alpes - or the himalayas -
as any chemist would, side with the geologists
than than the biologists: mushy mushy doesn't
buy my effort, the biologists just expanded
history, we might as well make the *other
connection, between desert and mountain,
ergo: time,
       takes a lot of it,
          pretty much as much as space,
             apes have become debased genesis foci...
too many variations of it,
you'd have to start with eskimo and say:
  well: the orangutans seemed pleased with
a down syndrome replica...
                so just the chimps? no gorillas?
i still like my counter darwinism argument,
the counter biology, the lost mushy mushy
cushioning of certainty -
    like any chemist, i live for the hard stuff,
comes no harder than siding with geology,
saying: the epitome of times comes in
the form of the saharan mountain range,
that, given enough time (and we have a lot of
that now) - eroded into a sand-dial...
    irony, or divine intuition?
          and didn't the bible give off a whiff of:
and then a dinosaur went into eden:
   hey, be gods, try to, even,
  watch out, a ******* meteor might just come;
there's no fundamentalism contained
in a book that was written by an egyptian
prince...
    just a lack of poetic integrity in the interpretation...
i still don't see how poetry is slagged,
but the basic tenet of poetic writing is
taken, without a pinch of metaphor,
or counter-metaphor, in that it can be expanded
and be applied like a philosopher's stone,
to turn any known material into gold!

which brings me to another point, well, two,
how do you gain respect from the cats
you're petting?
             you sleep longer than they do.

point 2...

why has reading become such a "tedium" /
"accomplishment" -
   i'll tell you why, i don't like a language
of thinkers, i live a language realm of babblers...
the right to say blah is worth more than
the right to think oh...
                speaking has become too easy,
solidified by that fact that (if not even est.)
when someone writes a book, it becomes,
oh, the most glorious accomplishment!
     wow... these people really managed to
shut their gobs, and write a book?!
         wow... it's like seeing the fruition of
the event that didn't take place, that would have
been the out-doing of the hebrew architectural
tenure on the pyramids, that would have been
the hanging gardens of babylon,
that was, eventually, the poor nebuchadnezzar
crawling and snorting like a pig for seven years...
if you thought the pyramids were
a mad idea,  
    the jews finally solved the riddle exclaiming:
o.k., you know what, that's just
bonkers... you're about as mad as your hyena
grandfather, or father, or whatever he was
for asking to the seas to obey him by whipping
them (xerxes)...
  it's that unamazing to write a book these days...
or it really is, given that you have ghosts
writing them...
       ****, and they said the paranormal
didn't exist... really? ghost writers?
       maybe that's one of the reasons that when
don juan wrote his memoir,
  after bouts of not getting any, he invited
himself to a better pastime than jerking off...
well, might as well die a boring sod since
i'm not getting any, any more...
       me? i always thought of jerking off as
performing ****...
     i can't imagine the hand to be anyhow
different to the muscular ****...
    and for some reason,
i always end up thinking of the queen of england
waving: to add the seasoning of lacklustre
to the whole affair:
  like i'm there, but not really, there -
the roy orbison effort to make that:
strenuous effort at opera -
     and he was hardly the modern comparison
of a pop star with neck arteries protruding;
and he's still better than elvis.

word of wisdom:
  in the medium of poetry?
write by one technique, and one technique
alone...
          digression...
well, that's how i was taught english,
by a pict.

Startle response! Wake--

When danger is ante
cipated,0h
--0n
lego-h-overedge aver
age
verbage re sighin'

clinging vines from debunked strings and
threads twisted wit'em.

Assume, if ye may or plea or will as
ye wont, pray means ask.

That's all.
Here, wit'afewmisstook aitches and spaces:
here is what we got,

a fresh secret story, un concerning anything you
believed you believed of/from/about idea ifify ie able ity ness

Reason requires response, Will Robinson.
Hidden persuaded, almost,
but lost...

Really,
what sacrifice bought
young John Carson to sublimnal
top 0'the mind status,
for the first two tv
generations?

Who do you trust? Carson's tv game
show debut, aimed at after school,
junior high, latch key,
wait staff on swing shift or graveyard,
the entire set of doin' nuttin'
'round Tea, fancy goin'

head t' head wit' Mickey Mouse Club,
on all the UHF stations out west.

It's 1957, who do you trust?
Time's man o'the year,
The Hungarian Freedom Fighter Idea,
the first stiffed
equal-value re
belicose cold war victim
of the famine for the grammar
of kindness and good sense
associated with DNA,
little green apples, puppy dogs,the
straight up command to love them that hate ye,
enemies and other words for folk
who would just as soon **** you
as hear one more word
about peace.

VOG,
words were scrambled,
christic crypt vacuum
tube
signal to noise ratio, caliber calculater pro
jection on to the rerewall o'yeardamnedbrain,

VOG Cancel
Bozo. This ad will **** for us. We can own the
'earts and minds of every grammar 'ater ever.

Since Babel, since Eber 'is 'ebrew ef-
fective, fervent...strainer at jots and tittlishit
self.

This ad makes mistook rules po'man laughable,
punch'n'judy'ishit:

Whom
do you trust, the grammarian so like so many
Deweyish proguess
edumacated teachers, you had this teacher,

squint, wrinkle nose, tight jibbs
frameless wire rimmed specs, a greying bun,

flower print dress wit' the weest bit o'lace,
lipless snide corrector's face. A trope archetype,
heroes re
bel
on demand, that was the plan. It
started with

AN AD. Who do you trust? Black and white,
Here's Johnny standing under the billboard,
y'know,
for the show, standin' like *******, shoulders
shrugged, palms up, elbo's bent

(contenintal suit, note the skinny tie, why?)
Who do you trust? Innocent grin, wordless
"Who knows?" or "knew"?

Whodjewtrust, in 1957? Cronkite, nicht wahr?
See the USA in the USA

in yo' Chevrolet, ole!
Yew should try Ritalin, for pep.

Take Serutan tonight, and sleep, safe and restful,
sleep, sleep sleep

VOG (Scourby) and, remember Serutan is Natures,
spelled backwards. Cue the choir,

safe and restful, sleep, sleep fade away

----
Where were you in 1962? Off t'college,
watchin' Johnny of Johnnies,

Johhny Quest, Johnny Lighting, Johnny Carson on

Tonight, there's more...
after the news, the dayroom in the dorm,

this is whence the quips in the quad were to be
sharpened wit'

fashion able ible tips, to fit the Esquire *** Hef
uniform dress code of mutual hidden

persuadeds.

Some souls were spared the spread of the
original tv virus, VHF, couldn't penetrate
the canyon...never subjected
to Howdy Doody,
our brains were spared the
complexes planted via the sit
com cowboy war subplot
phase of novus ordo
secluremishitistcal
experiments in
alientated
mind control.
We lived in the desert, in a place

a lot like Oscar's Oasis,
a wordless Korean Cartoon
set in a desert much like mine. On Netflix, 2019.

I did not watch the mandated ten thousand hours,
even when the deadline for party affiliation

mental ascent was ex
tended, circa 1985, pre-
tending to be a measure of de
fencing public universities from the
effect of rock and roll,

since about 1964

with folk like Dylan and Baez and Hallelujah
Jubilee and Jambalaya on d'Baya,
Herb's brass on the Baja, where all the girls
work it,
like 'otel Kali phornia, sticky,

sweet, like a taste of Honey. Mr.Bond,
meet Miss
Galore. OH GOD, in the car from the speaker
she heard the idea the meaning

in the name, oh god, she squeezed my hand.

Honor Blackman plays that role, she whispered.

Trust me. It's a good plan. We got these kids!

Mom and dad just won the war, had six kids in five years,

Levittown di'n't work out, couldn't go home,
mixed marriage, from the war.

Things hap, cajun catholic wannabe aerospace engineer spy guy,
lands in Alamagordo and environs,
Summer 1944.

Here we are, Equinox, loosing season, 2019,

so some prayers were for real.

Red somthin'r'other butterflies are riding a rare breeze
from the south to the north through my
makepeace home. My peace I give,
he said,
all that passed is unexplored, take all the time

you can imagine.

My wife knows the names of those butterflies,
that's part o'm'peace. Knowin' she cares to remember
such improbably beautiful things;

soul possessed in patience, is she.

footnote 1: Despite Ciba’s efforts to market Ritalin as a ‘pep pill’, the stimulant failed to become a best-seller.  But that was not the end of Ritalin’s story.  As early as the 1930s, psychiatrists working at a children’s psychiatric institution in Rhode Island, USA had noticed that stimulant drugs could have a positive effect on the academic performance and behaviour of troubled children.  Although few psychiatrists took notice of these observations at the time, by the late 1950s, escalating concern about the educational abilities of American children during the height of the Cold War encouraged Ciba to consider a new application for their drug: underachieving schoolchildren.  They received approval from the American Food and Drug Administration (FDA) to market Ritalin to children in 1962 and, almost immediately, it became a best-selling drug (google it I didn't write the footnote pard but I forget where I got it.)

I mean no disrespect, understand;
Larry Tate is a hell of a guy,
But if you can’t wrangle up a showgirl or ****** on short notice,
You have no business calling yourself an ad man.
Likewise, the Stephens kid gets results
(God only knows how he carries off
Some of the last-minute miracles he pulls out of his ***)
But you gotta keep him away from the money clients;
Too skittish, too much of a loose cannon.  
No, every agency needs a core principle,
A philosophy to anchor itself on;
You remember the first big campaign we did?
You call that a suit?  Mine’s an Irving Freibush.
That was my baby, and let me tell you,
I didn’t need a focus group
Or some fifty-thousand dollar demographic study
To figure out if the ******* desk
The model was leaning against should be oak or cherry.  
I knew it would work,
Because I knew what every ad man
(And preacher and politician, for that matter)
Worth a **** knows as well as he knows his own name;
That everyone, deep inside, feels they are not quite right,
That they’re a little slow, a little shabby,
A little less than their fellow man.
We just (quietly, mind you) reinforce that notion a bit,
And present them a shinier, newer band-aid.
Anyway, the ads worked like gangbusters,
And it always gave me the jollies that both Hef and Billy Graham
Each had a closet full of those suits.  
Look, what we do isn’t rocket science or parlor tricks,
But a bunch of ******* figures
At the bottom line of the ledger book?
Now that, boys and girls, is ******* magic.

Sorts of things I say we say sometimes only I say them

because, I'm glad to know no mystery remains

to the man who can read with the joy of a boy,

eyes un-cataracted as needed, from time to time,

my sort, we see clearly from long before.

In the good old days, we'd all been dead a while.

Now, we watch our children's children sprout

from good seed I hid in wild oats,
which grow naturally, amidst
the rosemary and sage

as reminders to me.

A little leaven leavens the whole lump,
a single virus killed movie Martians,

cannot a key-**-tic prince of the power of the air,
a manifested, creation-groaned-for-son-of God,
A radioman minded to tell the whole
hole
story

sprouted from a little leaven,
like the kingdom
of heaven.

------
Sorcery, we were defining the word, not the act, if in fact, there is such an act.

Rumors say it's jokers. Clowns got big cred on YouTube and the Res Casinos.
Rogan and Roseann,
they cover for Cosby. He was sick,

woulda died, in the old days. But the young ones, some remember
God tellin' Noah, and by
ex-trapped-a-nation-ism,

Noah's and Naamah's kids, they remember God
using Bill Cosby,
by God.
to say
Something like,
"You know, it don't work that way."
God used Cosby to say that to Moses, so we all could know.

Don't forget the old days.

Cosby was cool for a while,
Hullaballoo, Birmingham Jail, I Spy,
Hef's House, and all
that a frat boy
would ever
wannabe,
1963.

Things change. Good always wins. It is not fair.
Birmingham Jail?
----
An old man disagreed.
I had said there is no good reason for war

and evil reasoning is corrupted.

War has it's reason, he said.

that is not a good reason. I said that.

I said that, war has evil reasoning,
bizarro sympathy reasoning,

proud reasoning.

Only, I said, one-ly. One and no more.
One reason for war.
Pride
in any fashion.

----
and that’s what he said when I asked why Moses was going to inherit the earth if he was dead.

In die hart van Afrika se suidegrond,
Styg ’n taal, sterk en bond.
Diep in son en sand,
Stemme dra oor hierdie land.

Afrikaans, die taal van hart en kin,
Gevleg met stories van waar ons was en bin.
Van boereveld tot stad se straat,
Sy ritme sterk, sy klank hard.

Woorde wat van berge hoog weerklink,
Stories oud, na die hemel gesink.
Met elke “sê,” ’n belofte gegee,
Van erfenis wat nooit sal verdwyn.

Ons taal sing van lag, van trane en vrees,
Van stryde gewen en drome geheg.
Al verander die tyd, al rol die gety,
Afrikaans bly staan, sterk en vry.

So hef jou stem, laat dit luid wees,
’n Lied van trots, ’n taal om te lees.
Want in elke frase, elke woord en rym,
Dra ons ons Afrikaans, deur elke tyd.

It ain't gonna be me the stinking state pigs will be a-cuffin' because
I ain't licensed at nothin,' not even bakin' a sweet, California muffin
with big raisins, orange sprinkles & whatever else I feel like stuffin'
so as not to yank out prematurely before I gets more than enough in
Sometimes I cry as pigeons peck my *******, other times I just tell
them to stop it & not to do it ever again because I don't like it much
Fattened cows ate our tomatoes & starving pigs then ate our posies,
so don't you dare take a huge, reekin' **** on our colorful tea cozies
'cause lovin' you's like fressing cherry pie from a gal with 1 bad eye
while I sit cocked sideways needing a yardstick 'cause I ain't so shy
Mary Ellen Judy Norton Taylor Walton your ******* are too flabby,
so I will go down on your furry tuft below, that I jokingly call tabby
as Judy suffers from, & is afflicted with, an obtusion of farm senses
that interrupt her monthly charges regardin' normal-flowing ******
For Hef's ******* Judy was feverishly hot on a bear rug naked bare
after flinging aside T.V. pretend bro' Jim Bob's farm-boy underwear
that he wore when they rocked the house in grandma's rockin' chair
1 day I was viewing The Keiser Report starring ugly ol' Max Keiser
which would detract from my sexiness yet make me so much wiser,
& cause great-toe-jammin'-pecker stiffness & irritate either eye sore
while grindin' down 4 canines, 8 premolars & a middlemost incisor
I'll sing 8 days on the road in my big truck like I'm ol' Dave Dudley
running from Jesus God and hiding with waitresses as I rave studly
of a manly prowess using stiff asphalt laid thickly to pave mud free
like the wife support payments forked over by singer Neil Diamond
that would be burdensome to a poorer Jew like the shill Neil Simon
Boldness & beauty, blackness & blue, I am stupid, just not like you
'cause as my cornflakes sog in milk, I don't sell my nuts for a *****
anywhere where life spells death there is a cloudy heaven to pursue
It was hard push, yank & pull, talk ***** to me don't talk ***** to me
I like you or likely I love you, I try too much, better just wait & see,
while I give up at changing you into the woman I long for you to be
in the image that schmo Bobby Darin wanted for ****** Sandra Dee
whose big ******-numbed ******* nursed Bobbie's raw-milk brutality
pitched on a bowling lane of broken-leg bone & severed-hand ****
what made him stolidly 910 million times more serenely handsome
under the guilty shadow of the gay Bruce Jenner gender switcheroo

that could very well be his surgical whoops slip up Waterloo before

he would sexcite sike **** Hillary Clinton's homosexy affairs anew
whilst his hot peas thawed, hair pack jelled & old girl caught a clue
beyond clues given for cows driven to spit up cud for another chew
in kingdom halls where witnesses disfellowship guys seen fartin' &
queer-drunk on Mexi-gasser beans poured from a lime-green carton
that was endorsed by ******-ball Dino Crocetti A.K.A. Dean Martin
who liked pancakes, hotcakes & flapjacks with blackstrap molasses
as he denied hotcakes for burnt pancakes, griddlecakes & flapjacks
& proctologic exams for nothing that probed his chafed crap cracks
that looks like a flounder, that with a *** cleaver, a crazy *** hacks
at my red wiener, warty cucumber, candle stick & old orange carrot
as witnessed by my chimp, quokka, gerbil & clipped African parrot
that is so selfish with gooily-raw rat meat that he'll not even share it
with the hack Bob Browning & his ***** monkey Elizabeth Barrett
****** hid her vaginal emptiness from Richard Cory, Kyle S. Bruce,
Daisy Lou & Garett Hobart's lost nephew whose quarry tile is loose
You screamed like an unwashed **** when I pinched your lard ***,
I can't stomach your sister, because she is such a whining, hard lass
conjuring up old Crowley occultism, but what makes her the worst,
she wants me to sign a ****** suicide pact that states that I die first
as self-****** is a sin & she cares little about my soul being cursed
in realms that count not among its angels William Randolph Hearst
& Marion Davies & accused wife-snuffin' millionaire Robert Durst
whose hunger for Malay tail was sadder than greasers dyin' of thirst
I slumber in greenish ***** ill puked hard *****-woozy & drunken
too sick to down gooey, greasy doughnuts I shoplifted from Dunkin
'cause I purloin cream topping & jelly filling better than anyone can
now o' when Smith, of the fake Titanic, knew he was a man sunken
to televise (tele advise me telly television tele-visionary uncle Ken)
my nose from the vantage point of me red **** is funky-funk funkin'
or my ear from the fall-off point of a thin *** sins funky-funk funkin'
or brow from the terminal point of **** lips is *****-punk punkin'
or toes from a tiny point of 2 **** tips that're chunky-chunk chunkin'
& triggered at the apex of ******-**** ***** for a clunky-clunk clunkin'
once ragged atop the peak of Clinton's ****** of dunky-dunk dunkin'
& crap beyond a holt of pretty ******* to ***** a bunky-bunk bunkin'
My ultra-favorite, back-******* monkey loves me me me but
I love my bonnie Bonnie who lives across the ocean & over the sea
in a palace with Sparky Marcus who spreads a cruel, spooky mucus
over a toady staffer popularly known as crazy Luke or kooky Lucus
whose stratospherical id raced far beyond whatever Sparky ever did
long after Henry McCarty & William Bonney became Billy the Kid
Confess & grovel before the Lord, for on asphaltum your ***'ll skid
because dark spots on my shaded parts means that I got a headache,
that's got more killin'-power than a Malaysian/H.A.A.R.P. seaquake
I know that what you now know is on a need-to-know basis, and so
I counted them twice to I see that you amputated my left largest toe
to **** foot-bred animalcules unfelt as my atrophy trots paraplegical
in ****** labs of agriculturalists, whose studies are parthenocarpical
I love the challenge of a chic freak as it makes my pocked **** tired
7 days in a usual Haitian work week like quitting before being fired
which was her fat-*** way of losing a new job just after being hired
as this stunnin' **** ruptured me because she was so sexually wired

with white ***** makin' my Jacmel Beach tragedy 100% uninspired
Ol' men know that plastic Barbie doll dolls want G.I. Joe men, ever
since genital-lacking Barbie Roberts had the baby of *****-free Ken
whose naked 11-count stood unnaturalized as he could not reach 10
as cruel bears are bear-tricky like Smokey Bear & T.V.'s Gentle Ben
in ol' Kowloon City where Nancy Kwan sleeps with me as Ka Shen
who smoked Raleigh cigarettes for cancer & sailed north for scurvy
to enhance her perky nay-nays & to make nip-wide hips more curvy
on the roof to the floor, beneath the attic in my dungeon topsy turvy
On rough seas no boy sailor knows what a Chinese cargo ship'll do,
'cause in a tight D cup bra a raw-rubbed lawyer **** may ****** sue