I woke up to a beautiful summer morning. The sun was shining and the rainclouds were far away. I decided I would spend the day on the beach. I always enjoy visiting the beach as it gives me an opportunity to laugh at people's hideous bodies. But where? And then, suddenly, a wonderful idea came to me: why not go to a nudist beach as they always attract the ugliest people with the worst bodies imaginable. And you get to see their naughty bits too, for added humour.

So I rushed to my computer to check the Internet for possibilities and, to my utter amazement, I discovered there was a naturist beach only fifty miles from my beautiful home. As I read the details of the beach and the directions, I had a sense of déja vu; I realised with a frisson of ****** anticipation that it was the very same beach described by Victor the ****** in his wonderful story "Confessions of a ******" which held pride of place on my toilet reading shelf.

I was at the wheel of my incredibly expensive and luxurious car just as soon as my servants had packed my essential requirements: icebox with chilled vintage champagne, lightweight folding gold-plated sun-lounger, vicuna picnic rug and of course my lunch hamper. My chef had rapidly prepared a delicious impromptu luncheon of smoked salmon, steak tartare and a selection of other goodies. I decided to dispense with the services of my chauffeur in the interests of preserving the confidentiality of my destination.

In less than an hour and a half I was there; and the place was exactly as Victor had described it in his immortal novella: a long stretch of mixed sand and pebbles, backed by dunes planted with wild grass, waving romantically in the sea breeze. Idyllic, and crawling with naked perverts as a bonus. I parked my car and transported my equipment to the dunes. I regretted not having brought one of the servants as the hamper and icebox were quite cumbersome and heavy. I was perspiring gently by the time I had unloaded everything and set it all up to my satisfaction.

I took some care in selecting what I felt was the optimum location as I needed to combine the potentially conflicting benefits of wanting to see as many naked people as possible (hopefully including some *** action) with the need for privacy. After all I am famous. I finally chose a spot where there were several ghastly specimens on view for a few laughs and where I could also see a potentially interesting couple who might be exhibitionistic perverts. The man was about 45, shaven-headed, skinny and prematurely wrinkled all over by the sun (yes, I do mean all over) and he had an interesting tattoo on his back: "I love hot ***** ***", which I saw as promising. The woman was plump with pendulous ******* and very prominent buttocks; additionally - how can I put this delicately? - her **** was totally bereft of hair.

Before settling down to my lunch, I felt a little perambulation would not come amiss. So, as bold as brass, off I went for a little **** stroll through the dunes. I will not describe in full detail the visual horrors I encountered: hirsute old men playing aimlessly with wizened, shrunken todgers the size of a thimble; obese old biddies, their rolls of sun-tanned lard hanging round them like rows of bloated udders on a pregnant sow; tattooed bald queens, muscles bulging under lashings of sun-oil, their pierced genitals glinting wickedly in the sunshine; the list was endless. How could such grotesques revel in revealing their corporeal repulsion to the eager world?

And then I saw him! It had to be him! In a dip in the sand dunes lay a middle-aged, paunchy little man, intently watching a couple of old ******* groping each other incompetently. It could only be Victor the One-Legged ******! After all, just how many unipod Peeping Toms are there?

I strolled over to him, coughing discreetly so as to give him a chance to stop his furtive *******. 'Do excuse me for disturbing you,' I said, 'but are you by any chance Victor the famous ****** whose confession I read only last week?'

'Why yes,' he admitted, 'but how on earth did you recognise me?'

I smiled and pointed to the cast-off artificial leg lying next to his beach towel (which, incidentally, was emblazoned by a giant "V", a bit of an identity hint, I felt). He patted his stump ruefully and laughed uproariously so that his average-sized ***** flapped like a pennant in a Force Eight gale. 'I forgot,' he bellowed deliriously.

'I'm just about to have a spot of lunch,' I said. 'My personal Michelin-starred chef, Jean-Claude Anusse, always over-caters ridiculously as he knows I often pick up people on my excursions, so there'll be more than enough. I'm afraid it's nothing special: some smoked salmon and some assorted cold meats, possibly a spot of pâté de foie gras, if I know Jean-Claude. And, naturally, enough champagne to drown a hippo in. Please do say yes, as I have so many questions to ask you about your hobby.'

'That's very kind of you.' mumbled the astonished Peeping Tom, 'I should be very happy to accept your generous offer. Incidentally, to whom have I the honour of speaking?'

I was, frankly, shocked when I realised Victor had not recognised me, and then I remembered I was naked. That explained it. 'Why, I am none other than Edna Sweetlove, poetess to the stars, creator of the Barry Hodges "Memories" poems and biographer to the intrepid and incredible superhero SNOGGO,' I murmured sotto voce, not wishing to be mobbed for my autograph.

'Edna Sweetlove!' he exclaimed, 'you mean THE Edna Sweetlove?' And so saying he glanced down to my genital zone in order to answer the question which so many of my fans have asked over the years. He grinned as he saw the solution to the great mystery.

Victor quickly strapped on his prosthesis and accompanied me (slightly lopsidedly) to my little luncheon site. He helped me unpack our repast and then made himself as comfortable as a naked one legged ****** could reasonably expect to be without a chair.

I must say Chef and his team had excelled himself in the thirty minutes I had given them: smoked salmon roulades, a magnifique plateau de fruits de mer including a three-pound giant lobster, steak tartare, a whole cold pintarde à l'ail, a few dozen sushi rolls, a monster summer pudding, and naturally a Jeraboam of Krug '92. No wonder the hamper had been so ******* heavy. I could see Victor was impressed as I offered him a chilled flute of the most expensive champagne he had ever tasted. 'Better than the pathetic, poverty-stricken muck you were going to gobble, I expect,' I commented in a friendly way.

'Mmmmmmmmm! Absolutely delicious, Edna. I was certainly not expecting this! exclaimed the grateful freak. But before we start on what looks like a truly exquisite nosh-up, I must give you a word of warning.'

'A word of warning? What about, Victor dear?'

'Well, you see, there's no, um....er,' he blushed charmingly.

'No what, Victor? Don't be embarrassed, sweetie. This is Edna you're talking to. Spit it out, baby.'

'Well, um, there's no ******* on the beach, Edna,' explained Victor uncomfortably. 'So, if you need to pump ship, you have to do it native-style "au naturel" in the dunes over there, which can be a bit messy what with all the filth lying about the place in that area, not to mention the lavvo-voyeurs hanging round. Or else you need to swim out a bit and unload into the sea. Judging by what's on offer at your stylish picnic, we'll both be bursting for a good old **** and crap afterwards.'

I shrieked with laughter and explained there was nothing I liked better than a widdle en plein air or a double act dans l'eau. We then tucked into lunch with a vengeance. It was ******* delicious, even though I say so myself. After about fifteen minutes' happy munching, interspersed with witty small talk, Victor suddenly went rigid. 'Look over there!' he hissed and indicated the middle-aged couple by the windbreak.

I looked and I was surprised. The plump woman with the big *** was on her knees in front of her partner, giving him a vigorous *******, and he was lolling back in ecstasy, a broad smile on his face. He seemed to be looking straight at us, almost visibly willing us to watch. He winked repeatedly in a conspiratorial fashion; maybe he had St Vitus’ Dance. Or even worse, he wanted me to get stuck into the action with them.

'They're regulars here, they normally put on quite a good show,' explained Victor excitedly, his hand reaching down automatically to his rapidly stiffening ****.

'Victor!' I admonished him, 'I would prefer it if you didn't **** yourself off during lunch. How about another oyster, you silly old ****?'

'Sorry, Edna, I forgot,' he replied shamefacedly. 'No more oysters thank you; they only make me more randy than I already am. But I'll have another lobster claw if I may. My compliments to your chef.'

So we sipped our champagne and enjoyed our luncheon as we watched the couple give us their little exhibition. After a few minutes *******, the fat lady turned around and leaned forward on her hands and knees and her gnarled bald hubby ******* her doggy fashion from behind with some gusto; this made her beefy buns bounce about like two ferrets fighting in a sack.

I glanced around us and realised that, totally unbeknown to me, the little spectacle had attracted quite an audience. Nine men, young and old, short and tall, fat and skinny, stood staring transfixed by the petite scène erotique before us, all ******* wildly. 'Oi!' I called out. 'Can't you see we're eating?' I admonished them, but to no ******* avail whatsoever.

Victor was visibly torn between his innate desire to watch the copulators and masturbators and with his understandable wish not to offend his lunch companion by manhandling himself unrestrainedly. But, thank God, his natural good manners prevailed and we continued to converse and enjoy our meal in the midst of this Bacchanalian scene of depravity.

I watched dispassionately as the couple came to what sounded like a very satisfactory mutual ******, accompanied by the observers' seminal tributes to their performance. I naturally had filmed the entire scene secretly on my state-of-the-art mobile.

'If you give me your email address, Victor my love, I'll send you a copy of that little show,' I promised. He nodded in gratitude. 'Victor  the ****** at yahoo dot co dot uk,' he mumbled rapidly, 'no dots, Victorthevoyeur is all one word.'

Once we had polished off lunch, I told Victor I would like to interview him with a view to writing a short story about his life's work. He was touchingly flattered and, with a little judicious prompting and probing, told me his saga, which I recorded on my Edna-phone. I naturally don't want to pre-empt my forthcoming mini-biography of Victor, but suffice it to say that Victor told me how and why he became a ******, he regaled me with some of the staggering things he had seen, he gave me a list of some really ace ******* locations, he shared all his best peeping places with me, he gave me the ultimate lowdown on the world of Britain's most celebrated *** snooper and I was touched by his burning honesty. I felt a tear ***** my eye at this tragic tale.

All too soon it was time for us to part. After thanking me profusely and making me promise I would visit him one day so he could repay my generosity, he re-attached his metal leg and limped away towards his beach towel. I knew he was raring to go as the best of the action normally took place in the early evening.

'Farewell, dearest Victor,' I called out as he tripped clumsily over a fellow pervert who had been eavesdropping near us.

I live vividly without visibly having the ability to live willingly nor the versatility to fight your volatility. Unequivocally I believe in relativity but unofficially I use negativity as a means of self-sufficiency. Naturally I have a proclivity towards acting predictably when publicly judging turbidity. Additionally I hide in anonymity and indignantly ignore my epiphany of the asymmetry of unanimity. Shamefacedly I turn to your intricate dystrophy and observe the futility of my soliloquy. I can' find nobility in dying deliberately, but it shows efficiency in skimming humanity. Initially my hostility was untangible but it has suspiciously aquired solidity and is now intermittently sending signs of my eccentricity. My alkalinity is running low because surreptitiously the pungency has grown. I am undoubtedly peripheral to the society and irresistibly disposable in the industry of this idiosyncrasy.

...THEREFORE I AM!

It was when I awoke
I realised I had

vanished
&
had been

replaced by an almost
perfect copy

of
my self.

All that day I kept
trying to catch myself out

or rather the copy
but the copy

kept getting the better
of me.

That night I
patiently waited for

and waited for
the copy to fall

asleep
before shamefacedly I

snuck back
into the real me

"Now, what...was that
all about...?"

I thought but

to this day I
still can't figure it out.

...THEREFORE I AM!

It was when I awoke
I realised I had

vanished and
had been

replaced by an almost
perfect copy

of
my self.

All that day I kept
trying to catch myself out

or rather the copy
but the copy

kept getting the better
of me.

That night I
patiently waited for

and waited for
the copy to fall

asleep
before shamefacedly I

snuck back
into the real me

"Now, what...was that
all about...?"

I thought but

to this day I
still can't figure it out.

...THEREFORE I AM!

It was when I awoke
I realised I had

vanished
&
had been

replaced by an almost
perfect copy

of
my self.

All that day I kept
trying to catch myself out

or rather the copy
but the copy

kept getting the better
of me.

That night I
patiently waited for

and waited for
the copy to fall

asleep
before shamefacedly I

snuck back
into the real me

"Now, what...was that
all about...?"

I thought but

to this day I
still can't figure it out.

DEATH AIN'T GOT NO
SENSE OF HUMOUR

Stopped at
a red light

when who should pull up
beside us but Death

driving a fancy
invisible car.

He is dressed in
the usual trope

cowl and scythe
how cliched can one get.

He just sits there in mid air
tapping a boney finger

on  a wheel I
can't see.

His scythe sits
in the passenger seat

looking like a tame
pterodactyl

smiling with neon
and moonlight.

He nods to me.
I nod to him.

"Hope you haven't
come for me!" I grin.

He shakes his skull
back and forth.

"Just practising...what's de matter
you ain't got no sense of humour?"

He points a long boney finger
at the green car jumping the lights.

"Holey Moley!" I holey moley to myself.
"If that car don't stop it's gonna crash into us!"

And into us
it does.

But before it does
time goes AWOL.

The moment stretches into infinity and
the next second lasts for ever.

I nonchalantly watch the green car
hurtling towards us for an eternity

and just wish it would
get on with it and be done.

Even the rain falling
stops in mid-ari.

A bird's flight freeze frames
above the stilled trees

despite the bluster
of the wind.

Then as if someone had
pressed a button

infinity snaps back
into the moment's reality.

The green car bites with a roar
into my side door.

I watch it buckle and
stop a centimetre from my thigh.

I go out like a light and
the world does a runner.

The darkness is so
thick solidifying around me.

And then the world shamefacedly
comes back to me.

"Wot's yer name..." a voice keeps
asking "do you know uour name?"

Over and annoyingly
over again.

"*******!" Death
curses.

"How in Heaven's name
did you get out of that!"

My voice forms a cloud
in the cold night air

like a cartoon
speech bubble.

This breath is the sweetest
I ever have breathed.

The joke's on Death.
Death ain't happy.

"What's the matter Mr. Death..."
I quip all cocky like.

"You ain't got no
sense of humour?"

Even as an old curmudgeon, aye pucker
and raspily suction, albeit toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
(think feeble attempt
impersonating plumber plunging -
unclogging backed up toilet),
flushed with satisfaction,
now snakes into following non sequitur,
whereby then upperclassman,
whose name Scott Lambert

I suddenly remembered
modest fellow one year my senior  
- donned tee shirt
“please support your local ******”
yes folks back in the day,
one long haired pencil neck geek
palled around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),

and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting
without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said rolling stones
foo fighting beastie boys
allied with Smokey and the bandits,
the latter donning outsize
particolored grey pachyderm trunks,
Tuscaloosa so far away;

especially as Mummer doth strut
on unseasonably warm New Year's Day
sporting polar bear look-alike
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
merrily squeezing Charmin
rubbing her/his tuchus
excellently exhibiting posterior
as chief motormouth sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Mein kampf elapsed distressfully
even now scores of decades later
ah..., the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
recalling happily never
being beat into pulp daily courtesy
imagine dragons saving me hide  
'though dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining consciousness, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated intimidating injustice
witnessed courtesy mine doppelgänger,
who wanted to strangle  
the m*r f*rs yearningly
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although
decades long since elapsed,
whereby muscle bound hoodlums
jockeyed to rain
one after another verbal Hawaiian punch,
and bandied fist viz physical blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (shamefacedly, sneakingly,
and stuntedly) didst grow

(as an aside resembled anorexic
Kris Kringle **... **... **...),
which long sleeved Santa suit
rendered invisible liver spots;      
said epidermal splotches black and indigo
wracked (in my pinion), impacted, and affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, but upholds true value
nudging anonymous reader to chuckle
thru contrived written words y'know

good humor less or mo'
yours truly aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
feebly, lamely, and quirkily
(no matter recognizing ex post facto)
impossible mission reporting punks to principal,
hence describing, envisioning, forsaking passivity
as defensive modus operandi status quo
finally freeing mine unsung
inner foreigner juke box hero.

It’s Hard To Carry Gratitude With You All The Time.

A trait that must be trained;
Reminded in the very bottom of the self
To come alive,
We thrive on gratitude,
Its recognition and dynamic,
For it stimulates adaptability
And kindles reciprocity.

Trained to remain, admittedly,
One I’ve ignored: shamefacedly
Indifferent to the kindnesses
Fate’s brought my way:
The very definition of chagrin.
My plan is to begin…today.

It’s Hard To Carry Gratitude With You All The Time 11.16.2021 Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

DEATH AIN'T GOT NO
SENSE OF HUMOUR

Stopped at
a red light

when who should pull up
beside us but Death

driving a fancy
invisible car.

He is dressed in
the usual trope

cowl and scythe
how cliched can one get.

He just sits there in mid air
tapping a boney finger

on  a wheel I
can't see.

His scythe sits
in the passenger seat

looking like a tame
pterodactyl

smiling with neon
and moonlight.

He nods to me.
I nod to him.

"Hope you haven't
come for me!" I grin.

He shakes his skull
back and forth.

"Just practising...what's de matter
you ain't got no sense of humour?"

He points a long boney finger
at the green car jumping the lights.

"Holey Moley!" I holey moley to myself.
"If that car don't stop it's gonna crash into us!"

And into us
it does.

But before it does
time goes AWOL.

The moment stretches into infinity and
the next second lasts for ever.

I nonchalantly watch the green car
hurtling towards us for an eternity

and just wish it would
get on with it and be done.

Even the rain falling
stops in mid-ari.

A bird's flight freeze frames
above the stilled trees

despite the bluster
of the wind.

Then as if someone had
pressed a button

infinity snaps back
into the moment's reality.

The green car bites with a roar
into my side door.

I watch it buckle and
stop a centimetre from my thigh.

I go out like a light and
the world does a runner.

The darkness is so
thick solidifying around me.

And then the world shamefacedly
comes back to me.

"Wot's yer name..." a voice keeps
asking "do you know uour name?"

Over and annoyingly
over again.

"*******!" Death
curses.

"How in Heaven's name
did you get out of that!"

My voice forms a cloud
in the cold night air

like a cartoon
speech bubble.

This breath is the sweetest
I ever have breathed.

The joke's on Death.
Death ain't happy.

"What's the matter Mr. Death..."
I quip all cocky like.

"You ain't got no
sense of humour?"

DEATH AIN'T GOT NO
SENSE OF HUMOUR

Stopped at
a red light

when who should pull up
beside us but Death

driving a fancy
invisible car.

He is dressed in
the usual trope

cowl and scythe
how cliched can one get.

He just sits there in mid air
tapping a bony finger

on  a wheel I
can't see.

His scythe sits
in the passenger seat

looking like a tame
pterodactyl

smiling with neon
and moonlight.

He nods to me.
I nod to him.

"Hope you haven't
come for me!" I grin.

He shakes his skull
back and forth.

"Just practising...what's de matter
you ain't got no sense of humour?"

He points a long bony finger
at the green car jumping the lights.

"Holey Moley!" I holey moley to myself.
"If that car don't stop it's gonna crash into us!"

And into us
it does.

But before it does
time goes AWOL.

The moment stretches into infinity and
the next second lasts for ever.

I nonchalantly watch the green car
hurtling towards us for an eternity

and just wish it would
get on with it and be done.

Even the rain falling
stops in mid-air.

A bird's flight freeze frames
above the stilled trees

despite the bluster
of the wind.

Then as if someone had
pressed a button

infinity snaps back
into the moment's reality.

The green car bites with a roar
into my side door.

I watch it buckle and
stop a centimetre from my thigh.

I go out like a light and
the world does a runner.

The darkness is so
thick solidifying around me.

And then the world shamefacedly
comes back to me.

"Wot's yer name..." a voice keeps
asking "do you know your name?"

Over and annoyingly
over again.

"*******!" Death
curses.

"How in Heaven's name
did you get out of that!"

My voice forms a cloud
in the cold night air

like a cartoon
speech bubble.

This breath is the sweetest
I ever have breathed.

The joke's on Death.
Death ain't happy.

"What's the matter Mr. Death..."
I quip all cocky like.

"You ain't got no
sense of humour?"


*

We were on our way back from a bookfair in Belfast and nearing home when this happened. The shelfing units slid forward from the back and karate chopped me on the neck. I went out like a light...darkness invading my sight. When I came to a man was asking me if I knew( over and over again)if I knew who I was and what was my name. I recovered quickly but forever after suffered from headaches and breathing problems but ****** I was amazingly untouched and unscratched.