Keys. Shoved through the letterbox
before I got up-
in an envelope with a note:
Could I (please) feed the cat…
Gone away? Good for her!
Car on the drive. Took a taxi. I think.
To the airport? Didn’t say.
******* with rain-
still, had best leave my shoes on the step just the same.
Obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene-
that’s why he left.
Who, in their right mind, puts cream-coloured carpet in a…?
Door. Not locked. Nearly fell through it.
Strange. She forgot?
Kitchen. Freezer’s empty, switched off.
No cereal. No tins.
Utility room. Spotlessly clean-
twelve! two-kilogram bags of Go-Cat Complete.
Planning to be gone quite a while. I think.
Playroom. Packed up. Kids staying with Nan.
She wants to redecorate before they come home?
Great. A fresh start. I think.
Bedroom. Suitcase on the wardrobe.
Bought a new one? Smaller. Lighter perhaps.
Makes sense. After all- she is travelling alone. I think.
Bathroom. Pristine. Almost empty.
Almost. Macleans and a toothbrush,
in a glass on the sill.
I didn’t think about that.
Until now.

Anxiety keeps Depression
Up all night and then
Depression sleeps
All day.

And every day they
Argue over the things they
Did or didn't say
Did or didn't do.

Sometimes they watch
TV together
But they never
Enjoy it.

Anxiety is in college and
Depression doesn't help her
Edit her papers when
She asks nicely.

Depression had a good job
She enjoyed but she ended up
Losing it and now Anxiety
Nags at her to find another.

Neither of them can
Find friends, so even though
They hate each other
They're all they've got.

They keep trying to date
But every time one brings
Home someone else, the
Other scares them off.

Depression is messy
With piles everywhere
But Anxiety keeps the kitchen
Spotlessly clean.

Anxiety can't stop bossing
Depression around
But Depression can't stop pulling
The covers over her head.

Anxiety and Depression
Are roommates
In a mental
Apartment building.

And I'm waiting for Anxiety
To forget to renew the lease
And Depression to be too
Tired to do it herself.

Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.

I walked into my house,
expecting my senses to be aroused,
by the aroma of baking bread.
so it surprised me, when instead,
of having my senses tickled by,
the delicious scent of apple pie,
or the aroma of food in the making,
or rice on the stove and turkey baking,
I walked in, instead, to an awful smell,
the source of which I could not tell.

I ventured to the garbage bin,
to see if the source of the stench came from therein,
but the bin was empty and sans any stink,
so I walked over to the kitchen sink,
to inspect and see what it could be,
But sink was spotlessly clean,
glistening almost with silvery sheen.
So I went off to see if the food had gone bad,
food in the fridge, if I may add.

But the food looked splendid so to speak,
it clearly wasn’t causing the house to reek.
So what then, was casing my flat,
to smell of a dead rat?
The toilets was where I ventured next,
to see if my kids had left them wrecked,
But they were clean and pristine,
cleaner than my face has ever been.
So I checked the rooms, to see if I had forgotten,
an half eaten plate of food that had gone rotten.

But alas, the house, to my dismay,
resolutely refused to betray,
the source that caused my home,
to smell like a sewer, from cellar to dome.
Aghast and defeated I called out to my wife,
who is the Sherlock Holmes of my life,
"Oh dearest wife of mine,
there's a stink sending down my spine,
a nasty and distasteful shiver,
like I'm drowning in the Mithi river".

"I cannot stand to stay indoors,
inhaling this vile smell anymore"
"Darling" she said sounding like a lark,
"While the cause of the smell may appear mysterious and dark,
the matter is quite simple and plain,
this smell of which you complain,
is not of rotting eggs or meat,
it’s the smell you've bought in with your feet."
With that, out of the window, she tossed my shoes,
She would have tossed me instead if given to choose.

She then scrubbed my feet with sandpaper
and made me less hideous and more dapper.

I want to be a figment of your imagination;
where images of angels spotlessly deceive
a dreamy serpent lady embodying indignation,
and you can't see the difference in between.

I want to be the reality of the situation;
when something happens you can't silence me
and every thought and move has consideration
on the level of difficulty to sit silently.

I want to be the mouse in the corner of the kitchen party;
afraid of bodies, eyes, words, and souls,
I much prefer if nobody is able to catch up to me
since I can't emotionally sail in seas with a ship full of holes.

I want to be a memory you don't regret;
disappointment burns like a thousand candles
'cause I begged myself to be someone you won't detest
but to believe in myself is something I can't handle.

I want to feel free from the memories of failure;
I remember everything that made me get lost at sea,
and it's sink or swim when you're a love sailor
and my lack of proper training proved to be costly.

I want to be the person you think of first;
there is no moment that couldn't be better
without a little serotonin star burst
to ease troubles and keep people together.

I want to feel forgiveness and remorse from you;
the 5 stages of grieving is a healing process
and honestly I don't know if I'm done with step 2,
but I should be on step 3 since I just wrote this.

Underneath the spotlessly clean and polished antique teak deck
Lies the engine room
and it is a wreck
a bit like me.
Look under the wrappings and that's what you'll see
a body that once looked like something like me.

Life's engineer has not been anywhere near
since last year
or the year before that
my batteries are flat and I'm wasting away
sailing a ghost ship
and what do you say?
"it'll be alright
you'll be okay
today is the day you will shine like the deck"

Well
break a leg
break your neck
but the deck isn't me
it's just an image portrayed
of what I'd like to be.

On an orange box wearing bright blue socks
can you see
The madness of me?
I just want to be left alone
to my own devices
The spices of life can be mine
if you just give me time
if you just let me be
let me clean up the engine room and then I can see
what I'm doing.

I haven't seen clover draped on those hills
for such a long time.
September, a romantic, beautiful month.
Pink hills, rosy faces, a picture of Heaven,
Petals scattered in a perfect line.
Those hills to climb, young love to seek.
In the blink of an eye, marching to the top
Never stop searching never drop
until you can relax in your clover
when the climb is over.
Take in the perfume
there is always room
among the pink and lime green
To be spotlessly clean,
Your young face, your green eyes retrace
familiar steps among the purple heather
wondering whether you are closer
The feeling is with you for a very long time.
The decent after the climb takes your breath away
and replaces with the love of your life holding buttercups
you haven't seen beauty like this for a very long time.
The flowing gold in her hair makes you stare
Radiating with love and romance, you walk with the petals
down your golden aisle, and have love for a very long time.

A crushed Shah Jahan said:
When you behold the memorial,
a sight so masterly, yet sorrowful;
you will inevitably admit
an aching little bisecting wish
that adorns your yearning lips....
parched,
barren,
effete......
And from the world's lid,
the luminaries too
would sob and drip.

#

He could well have been talking
about my beloved's words ;
......so utterly breathtaking
that a sigh poignantly quivers
in my dithering being.

Her words meander.
It is no wonder:
for all of us saunter
in thought and speech
one time or the other.

At times her words are poised and easy.....,
wonderfully jolly, sensationally starry:
They shimmer like the four minarets (1)
on the full moon night;
....brilliant......resplendent.

Then they taper from the dome
and stop halfway between the tomb
and the solemn reflecting pool:
They are calmer, sober,
and you know,
a little factual;
...what they call discriminating
intellectual, rational......

Soon the words leave charbagh (2)
and hit the red sandstone walls (3)
crenellated with flawless wisdom;
spotlessly beautiful
like the lifeless marble
that proudly commemorates
Mr. Shah Jahan's love
in grim, cold blooded grace.

We talk about
riders and scruples,
kith and kin,
restraints and constraints,
fidelity and modesty.......
....and I can not help
but to sadly agree
to the placid logic
in our impeccable scripts.

#

Logic is a wonderful remedy
for the radical and foolhardy
but for every cure,
there is a spin-off.
Deep somewhere,
a delicate,
two-cent sentiment
collapses into atrophy
and.......silently
another part of me
becomes a
meek monument
of disposable history.

----------

(1) The four minarets of the Taj Mahal

(2) The garden that starts from the end of the main gateway and ends near the squared base of the mausoleum is an integral part of the Taj Mahal structure.

(3) The building material used is brick-in-lime mortar veneered with red sandstone and marble and inlay work of precious/semi precious stones. The mosque and the guest house in the Taj Mahal complex are built of red sandstone in contrast to the marble tomb in the center.

I don't believe in done.
I don't believe in unbroken,
or finished, perfection,
spotlessly clean.
It's all a lie.
We all breaks, cracks,
I don't believe in always.
Then again...
When it comes to my brother's
addiction he will always be
drowning in alcohol. *****, whiskey, tequila.
His brain has become and will stay
barren.

I don't believe in recovered,
or survivor, trauma rotting into
your brain. The person you were, just
died, a masterpiece scrapped.

I believe in lost. Hopelessly lost.
Because I am there, or here. I
no longer walk the ground of this
earth, but rather the quicksand of
my memories. Stepping as quick
as I can, trying to find a way
out of my most recent delusions.
I can feel each hurricane of
another flashback and revel in it.
Thinking I'm revolting against him,
but really I'm just letting his
fingerprints from the crime scene
strip me of my pride again.

I'm not sure I believe in hope,
in love, in reality. I don't know my
stance on revenge, hate, vengeance, pride.

I know I'd rip his tongue out, or maybe
just half. So he can still taste his own
blood. Jam my fingers in the mess, so he can
see how it feels to have his blood on my hand.
Play our relationship in reverse. Rewind my nightmares,
see my body being put back together by
time. Slowly I am no longer burning.
I would simply slip away. Get out
of his hold, head locks, and being restricted.

No bruises, no police, no reports, no detectives,
no more holes missing from my being.

I believe in avoiding possibilities.

The good girl
Short story with a twist
By
Jude Kyrie

*Randy Evans was the ultimate family man at least in his own mind.
He had married Eva 18 years ago. He consumated their marriage on the wedding night.
This was the decent and proper way he mused.
He loved his daughter Janie now 16 with all his heart.
He brought her up to be the kind of woman he regarded as proper no friends without his approval of them and their parents.
Certainly no boy friends allowed at all.
She kept an A average at school and never gave them an ounce of trouble.
He hardly ever had to use his belt on her these days just a look would be enough to keep her in line.
Although the odd strapping did her no harm at all
It never hurt him in the long run when he father used it on him.
Yes he was the complete family man.and good father.

Janie came home and asked her father if she could sign up for the school trip to Washington it was three nights away from home.
Randy immediately said no those kids drink and smoke dope no way you can go.
You are a decent girl.
Yes Daddy said Janie not a inch f disagreement in her manner.
She had no intention of getting her bottom belted again.
Now help your mother prepare dinner Janie
She stood in front of the kitchen window looking into the  back yard edged by a wooded area.
Randy had moved them to the country away from the filthy inner city full of drugs and violence.
She was sobbing at the sink
What's up asked Randy is it because you can't go on the school trip?
No daddy I don't care about the trip he's back out there again I thought he was in the mental home.
He was four weeks ago well he's out there again daddy
Just staring at me like before.
Randy looked at the boy he was mentally challenged and had taken to stalking Janie.
Randy took his hunting rifle and went to the boy
Get away he yelled go home
and never come back or I will **** you with this ******* rifle you hear.
He was shouting a the top of his voice.the neighbors lights went on faces at the window.
He repeated I will I'll you get it?
But I love her sir she is my soulmate
the young disturbed boy whispered softly.
She loves me and I am going to marry her.
Randy fired a warning shot into the air.
The boy ran away into the woods.
Randy persuade him.
He lost him in the woodlands

He called Sheriff Black a  big man
Told him of the stalking it's back he cried.
Yep they said he was not dangerous the shrinks.
He said listen no more guns you hear that's my job.
I don't want to arrest you for criminal violence.

The next day Randy got home the women were crying
What's happening he shouted.
Someone broke in and ransacked Janie's bedroom
My ******* are missing and my bras.
Randy was beside himself
He went to the boys house his parents opened the door he just past them
Where is he that ******* ***** of a son of yours.
He's out the place was a disaster *****  washing and dishes all over the kitchen
Maids day off said Randy
Where's his ******* room.
Oh don't go there he will get mad with us please don't.
He pushed past her and saw his bedroom draw
It was locked Randy booted it open in contrast to the house it was organised spotlessly cleaned and neat.
A hospital made bed and neat closet all over the walls were pictures of Janie
She was naked in her bedroom her breast Photoshopped and enlarged
On the bed was was her bra and ******* laid out with a picture of her naked next to them
Alongside the bed the garbage pail was full of tissues he knew exactly what he had done
He's bashing the bishop watching her picture and undergarments.
Randy yelled I will  **** him I will  **** the ******* perv.
Rushing through the door he screamed threats all the way to his truck.
Then knocking the gatepost over and spilling the garbage cans he tore off leaving rubber marks on the tarmac.

He could not find him and returned home at midnight.
Sheriff Black was waiting
Where you been he said I was after that ******* kid
Did you get to him.
No I couldn't find him
He's dead beaten to death with a baseball bat with your name on it.
But I didn't do it.
The cuffs slipped on Randy's wrist.
The court case lasted two days
The jury was out in fifteen minutes.
Guilty of first degree ******
The witnesses telling of the threats to **** the boy the rifle discharge
The broken door of his bedroom the raging outburst leaving his home.
He go life without parole.

The TV in the prison was set to the news
He sat in the waiting room Janie was being interviewed by a lipstick covered reporter.
You have been through a terrible ordeal Janie
Yes but it's over now I am OK
What are your plans honey
Well I am going to Washington next week with my boyfriend and school friends for four days.
I am going shopping for new underwear mine was stolen.

He got it
He ******* well got it
It was Janie the little *****
He would tell her mother to get the ******* strap to work on her bare ***.
The penny dropped
She had given the slow boy her ******* and bra herself.
He thought she loved him.
The photos were hers she had taken them.
she had given them to him
The boy was a pawn
He was in love with her
He was just acting like any infatuated teenager.
And he was a ******* Patsy.

Janie fastened her new lacy bra it showed her beautiful breast off
Particularly with the **** low cut clinging shirt
Her boyfriend was going to love it.

A follow on to I Got Natural Eemunity

You know when I was a kid in a large family
We never had much money
So we had a bath only once a week
Simply because heating water cost money
Something we didn't have
A simple way of life eating simple food
Anyway days at school were spent alongside rich kids
In their spotlessly clean uniforms
With their sniffles and coughs and runny noses
Spluttering over their hygienically prepared lunch boxes
But
Us poor kids with a cheese sandwich in a paper bag
Rarely got a cough or cold

It takes considerable research to pick an ideal vacation spot,
The end result can be pleasantly surprising, more often than not,
Spain offers a multitude of choices that can be very exciting,
It is those small tucked-away towns that are the most enticing

Cadaques is a pretty Mediterranean location in Catalonia's Costa Brava,
It is a hippy seaside town akin to a hidden cove, that is no mere trivia,
Located on a small peninsula on the eastern side of sunny Spain,
It has all the trappings of an ideal getaway resort, with much to gain

It is the most inaccessible town north of Barcelona, though seductively beautiful,
The road winds through mountains replete with hairpin turns that are an eyeful,
Passing through cliffs one after the other, a rocky coastline is the final descent,
Entering the Spanish village with a breathtaking landscape, makes for rich accent

The idyllic setting, with unbeatable tourist infrastructure, is a veritable holiday haven,
For anyone looking to enjoy sun and sea, the attraction is like a piece of heaven,
The beach town gleaming above the cobalt-blue waters is a joyful sight to behold,
The allure of the windswept pebble beaches is so mesmerizing, if truth be told

The village is always teeming with tourists lazily walking the cobblestone streets,
The animated incessant Spanish chatter with exciting overtones is such an audible treat,
The blazing sun beating down all day from a spotlessly blue sky is never a deterrent,
To people of all ages sauntering the streets, joy writ on their faces, that is so apparent

Colorful sun umbrellas can be seen planted all along the beach, spicing up the milieu,
While the adventurous brave it out to get their suntan, unmindful of little else in view,
A dip in the clear blue water provides an exhilarating experience thro' the day,
The feeling is of total relaxation charting new frontiers, in a wholly different way

It goes without saying that Cadaques is a delightful town for the epicurious,
Restaurants abound in plenty, as they wow to whet the appetite of the curious,
Visitors flocking in droves at all times of the day, is such a common sight,
The menu dished out is of an irresistible variety - naturally, a gourmet's delight

Dozens of gelato shops can be seen virtually in every street,
The vast variety of flavors is mind boggling and an inviting treat,
Serpentine lines at each shop reflect the popularity of this delicacy,
Experimenting with combos is perhaps a fitting culminating fantasy

For strollers, the meandering lanes of Cadaques are an absolute delight,
The sloping by-lanes lined with shops on either side, are an interesting sight,
Skilled artisans flaunt their wares, with determined attempts to persist,
At the end of it all, the inclination to splurge, is undoubtedly difficult to resist

Spanish painter Salvadore Dali's house in Cadaques definitely merits an outing,
A walk around the house depicts his life in the village through his painting(s),
The scenic walk around the well-preserved grounds holds a lot of history,
That he was a tremendous inspiration to the locals, is of little mystery

Groups of people can always be seen walking from one end of the town to the other,
Animatedly chatting mundane and specifics that is delightfully difficult to decipher,
While the preponderance of Spanish locals is perceptible, global participation is nothing less,
It is this cosmopolitan aura that lends color to the charming town, stopping short of iconic-ness

The sound of lapping waves still rings in your ears long after you leave this quaint beach town,
You wish you could turn the clock back and dash back yet again as if making a U-turn,
It is this very quintessential charm that lures visitors to the hidden town with quiet coves,
Spread the message through word of mouth, that visiting such places merit many encores

See the boy as he wanders hands in pockets around the harbour,
Observe how he watches the vessels moored against the harbour wall,
Admiring this one, frowning at another.
Watch his face as he studies each in turn,
Frowning at neglect or smiling at a well found vessel,
Admiring the clean lines and seaworthiness of another.
This one is too fine in the bow, and will bury her nose in heavy weather,
The next is too bluff bowed and a good wave will stop her dead in the water.
That other, he notes, has good solid rails to hold onto in a blow,
The next has only guard wires, harsh on the hands and set too low to be of any real use!
And this one, spotlessly clean and as smart as paint,
But it never goes to sea poor thing! It is cleaned and polished daily and the engine run, but for what?
But this old fishing boat now, see how well it is cared for! Note the grease oozing from the bearings of her tackle, see how staunch and tight her boards are! And how well painted, take note how well organized she is, a place for everything, and everything in it’s place.
This is a proper sea boat, he thinks, and calls down a greeting to the skipper.
“Hi Dad, ready for gannin oot?” “Hi son. Aye ready!”

Two tall, spotlessly white pillars stand in front of me,
looking through, blue sky and white clouds come into view.
Sitting on a wooden bench with faded paint,
Thinking, dazing, confusing.
Looking up, the dazzling sunshine leap to my eyes,
Reflecting the flag waving in the middle.
A few sparrows fly across the sky,
Several squirrels ran across the lawn.
Taking a deep breath,
I can taste the cold breeze.
Suddenly the calm was broken by the rumble,
Looking down, turned out to be a car passing by.
These remind me of something,
That spring is far away,
Deep and unforgettable.
Memories will not fade,
Stories don't get old.

OUR PICNIC

Good fun, at yesterday's picnic had we.

Loved we Ketu's poro pau n the hot tea

Adalaj vaw because of steps many, I didn't see.

Shantini Ketan, was spotlessly clean.
There was peace and all was serene.

There was a lot of space, with swings n the lawn emerald green.

Played games, sang n ate a sumptuous meal  we.

Thank dear Meher Aunty, Ketu, Minnie Aunty, with all our hearts, we.

For this enjoyable day, when freak out like youngsters could we.

A BIG THANK YOU
From
Viraf n Armin

I was falling hard for your fervent fiery masculinity,
for the candlelit magic in your priceless and angelic abs,
the bright, evanescent moon in your chiseled and toned
chest, your spotlessly sculpted arms, thighs, and legs,
so healthy and ****, wonderstruck by your amazing touch,
by your scintillating canopy of overflowing compassion,
how I escaped inside your slow and smooth kisses,
a growing melody deepening, strengthening my love
for you as you wrapped your exquisitely heartfelt hands
around my waist, my eyes caught up in the horizon
of sunlight surfacing in your magnificent masculine vessel.

I couldn’t be without you, all your memories brightening,
inviting me inside your many mysteries, longing to experience
everything about life by your side, to feel the steep and broad
hills of your shoulders, your fascinating curves, such courage
bursting from every part of your caramel flesh, how you tempt
me with your thrilling energy, how I was emblazoned with vivid
colors by your artistic creativeness, how I could taste you
in my dreams, my mind merging with yours, our love lasting
forever, the times with you so true, making my soul soar
into higher galaxies, obsessed with your flexing grandeur.