Fat women with
Fur coats
To warm their overfed
Heaps of mass
Holding overpriced
Elongated, mechanical strings
Attached to their
Mouse-like dogs
That wear clothes
That cost more
Than my entire outfit
Shirt, jeans, boots, jacket
Combined

They yap to small devices
Glued to their ears
Like instruments
Of envy and jealousy
Yelling at their husbands
Or boyfriends
Or pool boys
Who haven't done their job
Either paying for whatever they want
Or neglecting to net out
That last nat
From their jacuzzis
Where they sip white wine
And sizzle in soapy water
Before getting out
And slipping on shoes
Made by kids
In Cambodia
Who have never held
A hundred dollar bill

What is wrong
Who is right
What is it
That's been done
Here
None of it makes sense
To me

Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.  
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.  
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.  
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my *****.  
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!

We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.  
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.  
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.

We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.  
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.  
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.  
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.

The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.  
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.  
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.

Happiness is:

Paul Simon playlists,
Sleeping outside on warm nights,
Cuddling and talking in hushed voices,
Clean sheets and blankets,
Jacuzzis in the rain,
Late night phone conversations that you never want to end,
Taking a risk... on you.

Learning a new craft
Creating something artistic and functional

Happiness is moving into a new room.
A new view with a blank canvas, free of any past procrastination and eager for a fresh painter's perspective:  new ideas, new expression,
Representing a shatter of the old routine and a chance for change : a new path from the bed to the closet, creating a new vessel for photos and keepsakes,
Old pictures with new nails, new dimensions, new materials, new.... thought:

... writing. Happiness is writing.
Pulling a string of words out of my temple like yarn and knitting them into a permanent form. Creating something lasting rather than letting them float around in a soupy mix....only to dissolve and disappear.

Happiness is tea.
Tea and biscuits with conversations,
Sharing these with good friends that you haven't seen in a while.
Dance parties in the kitchen,
Using pots and spoons as instruments, and sugar as the fuel.

Sharing a moment with someone.
A moment that you never thought you'd experience again,
A feeling that is so liberating you feel like this "you and i" could never get old,
Unless it meant sitting in rocking chairs 60 years down the road,
Because we'll never be old until we can't walk anymore,
Because as long as we can walk we will wander for miles until we see everything there is to see and we do it together with eager hearts,
And even when we can't walk with the earth beneath our feet we will walk through our memories,

Reliving the time we walked for 10 miles on steep paths lined with redwoods until we were so exhausted I made you run the last 500 yards to make sure we didn't give up and we jumped in the water just to feel the rush of adrenaline as the cold water made us gasp for air like we just discovered oxygen for the first time and we were so high.... High on nothing but endorphins and nutella from the packs on our back.  

Happiness is wrapping my legs around yours like vines,
so tight they hold like roots.
Holding us to this ground, anchoring us to this feeling, to this moment...

Monochrome buildings pave the way,
It's another monotonous day at the office.
And so starts my favourite routine
The required daily dose of caffeine
Sickly sweet sugar supplements
Occasional visits to the gents
Where in the tranquility
I can ponder what I'd like to be...

...Living so high the clouds are the sea,
No responsibilities!
I don't have to dress,
The butler can take care of the mess.
Jacuzzis, cruises, friends who I choose,
Admiring reflections in gold plated loos',
But perhaps I digress...

...Back to reality I guess.
If time flies when you're having fun,
Then pressing keyboards all day long
Makes every second crawl a marathon!
But I can multitask a bit.
I can breath and walk and talk and sit
While simultaneously pressing a button
And at the same time doing next to nothing!
But even then I can scavenge my mind,
And if I'm lucky I will find
That little paradise of mine...

...And faster than the eye can see,
I am covered in girls in bikinis
Whilst crashing Lamborghinis
Into modern art reflections,
Of my many types of perfection.
And I'll roll out, unharmed and afar
There's a feast for my eyes like caviar...

And if you find that hard to believe,
My imagination comes for free!
So I understand your private confession
That I must have the perfect profession.