1.I love my scars, they tell stories of survival, give life to my soul, remind me I am here for a reason, they tell me everything other people let me forget


2.I love my curves, each mountain and valley residing on my sides take pains to protrude and remind me I am soft, delicate, I deserve to be handled with care, I am a woman.


3.I love my taste buds.  So what if a steak has 3 million more calories than skinny girl’s bite of lettuce.  I am going to eat it anyways and I will be proud, and yes, I will moan, because why, my self worth is not contingent on my jean size


4.I love my laugh.  There’s something liberating about your belly shaking until it hurts, your body exploding with joy, giving another human being pleasure with just the touch of your voice.


5.I love that I’m beautiful, something you can’t touch, my glamour goes beyond my blemished skin.  I am more than the curves surrounding my center, I am ****; I am brave; I am smart.  I am fearless wrapped up into 5 feet of glee. You. Cannot. Touch. Me,


6.I love that I’m honest.  There’s something refreshing in saying, *******, you weren’t good for me anyways


7.I love that I’m faithful.  Faithful to myself, my dreams, my ambitions.  I am more than a man’s lover, I will live my life worthy to the calling I have received, regardless of what price you have placed on me


8.I love that I believe, trust in first loves, don’t doubt passion; it was sincere in the moment, but as that moment collapsed, outstayed its welcome, I believed I was more, and I will be ok, and one day, 10 years down the line, that same moment will come tapping on my door, requesting to visit an old friend


9.I guess in all I love myself, each and every blemish and bruise, every scar I’ve been given.  I was not created for your pleasure, but for His glory, I only require myself to wear that badge proudly


10.I love that I am who I am. loud, flamboyant, I am not afraid to speak my mind, which is why, I’m standing here, calling you to action.  Take a chance: love yourself.

I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.

If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.

But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.

To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.

Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.

It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.

It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.

The wisp
over the wallop.

.and i thought that only Metallica took back their mojo from the current musical oblivion... but it seems... the Prodigy did likewise with their new No Tourists album...

i'll be honest... English humor?
bewildering...
               just odd...
                      black satire,
or out-in-the-field plain heap of
ridicule...
        German? humor?
                       what? i thought
the Germans were pure logos
and absolutely no pathos...
   wait... oh... right...
schadenfreude... and irony...
but back east?
                 the Polacks have their
own version of humor...
it's primarily self-deprecating...
the older the ******,
the more they joke that Poland is
the Cinderella of Europe...
    what with the mild non-existent
hiccup due to democratic monarchism
of the aristocrats,
who... well...
   let's just they had their patron "saint"...
Konrad I of Masovia...
who... in attempts to conquer
the Prussians... invited the Teutonic Order
to aid him...
        and obviously the Teutonic
Order, outstayed their helpful hand
culminating in the battle of
Grunwald (which in the east is like
the battle of Hastings)...
yes yes, the dates...
  but Rome didn't make it to these lands...
i used to live about half an hour's
bicycle ride from a flint-stone
      mining community...
  sure... you can have your genesis monkey...
i have a flint-stone mining community...
now i get American humor...
    why?
                its pompous...
and there's nothing intelligent about it...
well...
  who the hell needs intelligent
comedy?
                      i don't want to think:
and then chuckle...
               i want to chuckle prior to
whatever impetus to think about
having laughed is left.

- and then the financial crisis begins,
in whatever year it was,
2007 or 2008...
       just like with the raiding heretical
Sunni Muslims who seem
to not understand the ideology of
jihad: a holy war,
yes... but to reclaim conquered lands
formerly in the possession
of Muslims...
this... this is the second tier of
expansionism, right?
but jihad is a type of warfare
to reclaim lost lands...
sorry... i'm not about to become
a clone...
    ah... wait a minute...
i figured how someone like
   Joel Osteen can speak so persuasively,
the whole point of his sophistry is...
well... just read one book...
and reread it like... countless times...
i must be scatter-brain by now,
reading the number of books i've read...
if i only read one book...
oh hell yeah... my confidence wouldn't
falter, not even once...
   i'd be like the equivalent
of a cardiologist: specializing in
all things heart related...
         point being...
the financial crisis didn't really
affect Poland...
    and this whole Hijab Party
central?
                             i might be a mere
citizen... but my heart is
entombed in the people...
            once criticism though...
  why the **** did you have to bury
leszko kaczyński on the Wawel Mount?
why not in Warsaw Wileńska,
where the presidents are buried...
hell... closer to the Belweder Palace
to boot...
       so... we're moving the capital
back to Krakow?
if i had the time, and money...
i'd seriously think about the noumenon
of how a certain part of Poland
was not affected by the bubonic plague
in 1347...
                 or Islam circa 2005.

Hakim sat
on the banks of the Euphrates,
his discarded newspaper
lifting, page by page,
on the warm wind.

He had been reading of the countless dead.

Of course, his mind played first
over those he had known.
An uncle, two brothers,
his mother
and a grandfather of ninety six.

All of them,
definitely gone.

But according to the paper,
atop the official body count
some twenty thousand souls
may or may not
have survived the conflict,
and his head swam
with this crowded limbo
and the knowledge
that no-one knew.

Enough people
to populate a small town,
possibly dead.
Not important enough
for anyone to be sure.
And Hakim, eyes
glazed in the dusty sunshine,
began to wonder
whether he was one of them,
the uncounted,
the unacknowledged,
wandering vacantly
through his outstayed welcome,

simpy waiting
for someone
to write down
his name.

1

I will drive you to the beach today,
Because winter has outstayed its welcome.
We have no tolerance for rude guests.
After all, it’s been a pair of months since
We had our last snowball fight.

We can undress to the least amount of
Decent clothing the law permits.
We will take sandals that clap our heels
Uniformly with our strides through the sand.

I’ve already packed our wicker picnic basket.
We will have ham and cheese on white bread,
Because we both agree peanut butter is unpleasant to smell.

We’ve cuddled all winter long to keep warm.  Now,
We want to hold each other for the innocent pleasure
Spring promises.  Now, we’re going to the beach.

2

She and I held our anticipation together
With every rotation of our odometer.
We—together—would enjoy the simple pleasure
Of watching the overbearing nines
Give way to a fresh thousand.

She pretended the AM stations
Received alien transmissions at the ends
Of the dials.  When we listened, we heard music.

She had the idea to buy one another
New bathing suits.  Now, I wear too short blue trunks
With green dots, speckling me like an ill duck.

3

Skipping, and kicking up sand with uncommon grace,
The sun began to set as she pranced around
Our fire.  The blaze was burning out, as the sky
Took the light away.  I could only barely make out
The purple of her new one-piece, that so starkly
Contrasted with her pale legs.

As the sun almost hid beneath the west, like a fawn
Her silhouette casually strolled my way.
She held her head to the stars, presenting
All of her neck.  The only sounds we heard
Were the tide and her toes crunching sand.

She stopped, just toe lengths in front of me,
Arching her head back, as if deep in thought.
Her mouth opened like a growing crater
And when, in her shadow, I joined her skyward stare,
We—together—both watched the Moon come out.

Prompt: Fill in the details of this phrase: “The place was boarded up seven days after Easter.”**

Vacant lots remain where hundreds of cars once sat, leaving nothing behind
except their deep tracks, proof that they had once been place upon the earth.
Where there were once beautiful reds, purples and oranges,
now stand deer bitten flowers, brown sticks that seep deep into the mud like a quicksand victim.
The place was boarded up seven days after Easter, taking the ticket office too.
Every building left just as it had been moments before, as if evacuated for a storm.
That’s how they do things here, forsake places that have become a nuisance,
disregarding a place because apparently it has outstayed its welcome.
I want to go in to take one last look around campus, but they have blocked off the road
from the public. Instead I wait by the wooden horses and look at a place I once called home.
I heard that they plan to tear it all down, leaving nothing behind but a ghost
of what used to be.
So once more, what has once flourished has now been forgotten,
but its memories will live on within the hearts of its alumni.

I feel like a stranger in my own home.
An outsider.
The lodger that has outstayed their welcome.
When are these feelings going to fade?
As though the cycle of my youth has started again.
Pressure.
Pressure to get a proper job.
Pressure to find someone to settle down with.
Pressure to be someone I don’t want to be.
Pressure to live up to the same standards as everyone else.
Pressure to be independent. Not just independent in the sense as we know it but in the financial sense.
Pressure to be thin.
Pressure to be as thin as my mum.
How do I break away from those projections of frustration, of disappointment, of self-loathing?

Where was I now, oh I remember, I had outstayed my welcome at Shotton,
"There have been too many complaints, the local farmer had had enough."
"Enough of what" I frowned, surely he couldn't mean me! "Anyway, I have had enough of this place, we are moving South, to a place called Sunbury on Thames, he smiled. "Your mum has your Christmas present, be extra good or you won't get any present at all." The weeks seemed to drag by, Dad had been ill and things had been delayed. Things were moving at last. Dad had bought a double fronted shop, It had been a ladies hairdressers., called Georgina's, it was done out in attractive pink tiles. My brother Jim grinned. "We'r in the pink, at last."  My dad's machines took up a lot of room, we had a sewing machine, a stitching machine , a blake stitching machine , a finishing machine, a cutter ,a skiver, a stretcher, a work bench with two pivot's, and a shelf below with a complete set of iron lasts, from tiny toddlers size up to the largest Policeman's boot. That's a little joke, nearly.  "When we get busy you will have to help, I'll show you how to make shoes, you can start by doing repairs, there is a lot to learn, I expect you to dig in." He frowned. "I can't believe I said that."

Another delay, another day wasted and no permission needed
My fingers bent out of shape everything aching and I look to my side:
I see grass frosted. My feet slap forward

Over pavement icy as the irises
Of opioded eyes.


Greenishgoldyblueishblonde.

She will come and she will linger
Sorer than a bruise.

I felt so ugly and lost for more than
Half of my life

And like a pale saviour:

Her eyes struck my chest like a match first time we met.

There was much between those years I couldn't let go of.


I used to walk home on two sprained ankles thinking of our unborn child; pain is where we grow.

I got home aching,limping and no one's here to look after me until I'm better; I can't do it for me.

Where are you?


A month after everything ended I screamed your name and got no response

Where are you?!

You're gone.

For good.

Yes.

And it's not even deep into winter and everything just gets worse by the day.

Yes.

This is the freedom I wanted.


She was there long before you but she wasn't you.
She had an accent just like you but she wasn't you.
We spoke and laughed for hours but he wasn't you.
She kisses better than you but she's nothing like you.

I wanted to become you.
I wanted us to meld
And never split like
We promised when we
Were younger; I became
Yours when we were kids
And we were untrusting strangers
That last year or two

Yet the comfort never left

Until it was time to leave

And I think we both outstayed

Our welcomes. I'll never stop

Being in love with you. Too late.

I no longer hate you, I see that we had two different paths and ways of getting to the inevitable
The memories meant so much but what can memories do for you?
You were just an opportunist and I refused to see the worse in you.
I needed you and you knew that.
I miss you like a kid
I now embody every bad habit
I tried to change in you,
Now you are a comfort forever
Out of bounds but I don't mind--
Just get over it.
I hope you're happy.

Pass through faux company

For something to do

Passing the time,I'd prefer

My own place while I wait

'Til the fix is in, then I can dance

A shuffle step or two in my room--

But I trick myself into thinking

The need for fresh air outweighs
The freezing cold, but it doesn't.

That listening is worth it if you get
The chance to speak; but it isn't.

I'll decide if I'm ruined another time
For now I think it's just better if I am
Left alone.

pre-scriptum that's actually a p.s. - shock value: staggering! what? peering into an empty glass, where once pirate ***-one-eye and damsel in distress ms. pepsi once resided! shocking! what now? well... guess that means a refill; ahoy the next glug glug! shave my ***** hair and call me p'ooh bear while you're at it; go on, skippy... MOVE IT!

a lazy ****, lodged up your ***...
suggesting
   itself, ever so slightly as being
present...
  man... the most terrible drinking
companion to date...
   in such moments it's never
much,
    it's not you're going to be *******
out a boa-sized tapeworm...
but you know: the general
discomfort, like wearing female underwear...
and it never is much,
it, just, *is, there, forcing you
to think about its presence,
and that's more annoying than:
are we there yet? no. are we there yet?
no. are we there yet? no, no, no!
******, take the plunge,
be off with your ******* sloth
dynamic of pretending to be a cute
parisian pastry in the display window
in some parisian bakery!
*******!
  that's what the blank said to me:
write me a funny one...
   less ***... and more:
         the confinements of taking the 2no.
for a stroll, past st. peter's gate
and toward the throne of thrones...
sure thing floating choccie...
     but just:                     imagine!
mmm... stardust and cinnamon...
   my grandfather had this knack of
describing his **** as:
         i was just around the strawberry
fields... oh look! i also found a dozen
plums, and a handful of, cherries!
have those with milk, and that's
            the perfect laxacative, that is.
on a serious note though...
(what's the onomatopoeia for snigger?
that painful kind of laughter?
                don't know? me neither) -
it's hard to think when you
have a "hitchhiker" who has suddenly
outstayed its welcome...
             a bit like the nicotine
"hangover" in the morning...
         **** me the excess of phlegm...
you hark, you bark, you snort backwards,
you spit, you sneeze,
you do everything possible to clear
the cavities...
   after a while you finally reach
the morning bliss of:
  smelling mint next to you...
you obviously water it to make the scent
exfoliate and become more potent...
but on a sober note,
this sunday times magazine
article by india knight got me thinking...
well... not really "thinking"
just bothered...
      she's moaning about loneliness
and the solution: ***-bots...
    she mention ****-boast gabriel -
and the flacid **** when you'd prefer a cuddle...
the sad bit?
       apparently men are the prime
instigators of this "phenomenon"...
   men only need ***-bots, someone tell them
they're loved...
   thanks... next i'll ask a cave to echo back
a hello for me, morphing my voice
into that of adelle's...
   look at my face... it came back in spanish!
biggest turn-off, (how to teen girls write it? ah!)
                                EVA!
sieve the eden eve into it?
    now i know that's funny, but i always write
it assured that it isn't...
sometimes i get it wrong,
   sometimes i even get a laugh for myself...
which brings me to the crucial point...
company?
           well yeah, i have "conundrum" -
the memory of a sober me from 1 hour ago...
    he likes to iron shirts,
  watches female football...
         likes ***** dancing because:
"apparently" - the film with the best soundtrack -
loves cooking, loves taking out the trash,
turns into a menace with his cats...
               no, i'm not buying it...
ah, what's the point of selling myself like that,
it becomes a pretty boring ambition
of getting to mid-life and ******* younger girls...
i always thought that youth guards youth,
but... no... sour note that part...
   well... nothing like turning to the guard
of cenobite invitation...
   and **** me, that ship has... sailed!
   oh look, a pretty moment,
                     a ship on the canvas of where
sky meets sea, and a lonely ship,
           and a sun taken to skinny-dipping!
just like a gay might say with
exact syllable peacocking: mar-ve(h)-loose!
louse? sure dingy-dingity-****
    two sopranos and three ballerinas later...
john? was it john? daaaarling...
   you're my favourite compensation
                                              to arthritis!
seriously? ***-bots are a man's thing?
    so they made their pro-bot movies akin
to ex_machina...
  but do people still remember
    that ***-bot in spielberg modern twist
on pinocchio via the a.i. movie?
   wasn't the ***-bot male?
                        lucky girls...
here with my bone-structured "****" imitation...
who ****** who with a
       flacid soft-pouch-of-a-kangaroo
****? shanta claush? sean... i told you to stop it!
     shorry.
                      shure you are.
ah, **** yeah! ****** joe! -
now that's tacky, we've moved on - now they're
called the teenage mutant turtle...
     teenage.... turtle... mutant... avengers?
whatever:
michael, raphael, gabriel, uriel, saraqael,
    raguel, and remie....
   theology and fame... ah... you probably
heard only the fraction 2/7...
    what part was the part where "lonely"
was implied?
the part where i like my own farts...
    or the part where i find it really, really *******
difficult to even sleep with a cat in the same bed?
or the part that i fall asleep best,
with a lullaby of a horror movie sountrack?

My sweetheart you are a wonderful cascade
Your beauty makes entire surrounding glade
In hot summer burning sun you are like shade
In lovers reckoning you are of superior grade
My love is in trance as your beauty swayed
My soul takes to be cut with sharp blunt blade
Your glowing cheeks have launched just a raid
At peril of my life the eternal price I just paid
Like moon in stars your sweet beauty outstayed
With your beauty in my veins I have to renegade
My love is like a music and your beauty serenade
Your beauty is eternal but my love is just to fade

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

she falls softly at his feet
gentle strokes lapping upon sand
touching white seafoam skin against her own
a soft touch of a lover’s hand

crushing through pink ribs
how heavy her footsteps tread
his broken, ribbed teeth pressed further, further into grit
yet no salted blood to shed

‘not many people stay this long,’ he says
‘they tell me i’m too cold.
they say i’m rough, unforgiving, a menace,
that my emotions are not controlled.’

her hair is long enough to graze his skin
and slithers of emerald bones wrap her toes
‘let me tell you a story,’ she whispers
of what no other ocean knows.’

‘my mother came to you years ago
she outstayed her welcome too,
in your cool embrace she took her slumber
in life, in death, with you.’

Lost in space

Unseen by many

He puts on his “mask of gold”

People fail to visit this “stranger”

He remains an ingma of soul

Left frozen in lonely snows -so cold.

Remains the frozen sculpture

Who once was a warm and bright man

Neglect and failure of communications

Has scarred him uncertainty of how to regain interaction.

“Houston…we have a problem”

Rocket man outstayed his welcome

On the moon.

An astronaut pushing himself to the limits.

He would ask the aliens. He needs directions back to Earth, soon.

As his supplies have ran out.

However, he never got to learn the neighbors language.

“Houston…”

Static has been his answer

As the Earth lost interest to contact

To see his trip home carried out.

“Mission Star Construct”

Was cheered when his mission was about to start.

Fresh and new.

All of the public wanted a blast off view.

Having to his own answers..will Star Buck

Survive?

The fall is his failure of hope’s light

The strength was knowing people would want him back.

How shall he know where to blast off and drive?

Conflict is the metorstorm

The questionable reasons

As to why Ground Control Lost Contact.

Was he merely a relic

Which undesired legends must

Drive with no light, crash or burn,

Or simply blast back torwards the earth

In a gambling style Yearn?

You know you've overstayed
when your clothes are laid out
on the bed,
the dog is growling and you're
wondering if the thing's been fed,

she said
to go,
but you should always know
when you've outstayed your welcome.

Let's take a bus!
Visiting universities with my son
Remembering / trying to forget
Listening to paper-thin academics
Peter Pan never-grow-old boys
Who outstayed big school
Not like all work no play dad
He's back where he once
Puked-up on the steps of libraries
He lived with hardback books
Cramped in, just one gas ring
Not now, all digital innit, mister
My old lecturers must be very old
Spewing memoirs or just dead
We go to the City Art Gallery
To find out where life pauses
And rest awhile together