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.

This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****.
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.

and it starts like this. all the time.


II

i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!

He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.


I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt

stop.



III

Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria  
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.

Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.

When I was born I asked the doctor, how he thought he did?
He recalled,
"Exquisite, it was a perfect delivery."
I rebutted,
"Then why am I still attached to the umbilical chord?"
He snipped me away from the tangling sheathe preventing me from exploration.
I leapt off the crinkling hospital bed paper and onto the goose-bump extracting tile floor.
Playfully bobbing my head as I walked into the world whilst giving the blonde doe-eyed nurse a crumpled note arranging what time I would pick her up for
dinner that night.
--Nurses enjoy being taken care of too.

When I was in preschool my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up.
I told her, "I want to feel the love of a woman who makes me happy everyday and loves me for being me."
She under cut my desired fate, "That's not a something you can work for."
I whispered in her ear, "I know you have never felt love from another person."
She began to cry.
I told her, "That tears are just water for her soul to grow."
She got married later that spring after the rain had stopped,
--Her soul grew enough to show.

When I was seven years old a neighborhood bully stole my bicycle.
I cried for four minutes.
I was angry for about an hour.
Instead of telling him that my dad could beat up his dad
I began to wear my helmet everywhere I went.
I shouted to the other boys in my class,
"I had an invisible superb-deathly speedy-extraordinary-intergalactic- bike."
Two weeks later that same bully gave me my bike back.
As he relentlessly rubbed his knuckles into the top part of my scalp I thought nothing, but that this is the reason why my Grandpa went bald.
Then he muttered through his wheezing breaths of anger,
"My invisible bicycle was much faster than anything your ***** daddy could have bought you."
--Dad's, they love hypothetical fighting.

When I was eleven years old two airplanes hit two buildings in New York City.
I did not understand.
I asked my teacher, "Why would God make evil people?"
Through her tears she explained to me, "Some people are just born evil."
I shouted under my breath, "People are not born evil...
implementing ideas in the sponge of a youth's mind is what is morally corrupt and evil!"
--Corruption is the first cause of terrorism.

When I was fifteen years old I had my first real serious girlfriend.
I did not understand, again.
I exasperated to my father over drinking our first father-son beer,
"How do I know when I love a woman?"
He nostalgically took a drag of his menthol cigarette and as the smoke made it's way through his nose like fog in a canyon he said to me,
"Whenever you look into her eyes and know that there is nothing you wouldn't do for her, that is love."
Before he could reach down and crack another pilsner I told him,
"Dad I look a little lower than her eyes and that is where... everything I would do to her."
--Hormones are a *****.

When I was twenty-one years old my mom told me I couldn't come back home after I graduated college.
I begged her to give me time. I will make it, I promise.
I shouted in the driveway with all my belongings she had neatly placed for me to pack into my car, "How do I know when I am ready to be on my own?"
She didn't have to say anything for there was a brown envelope on top of my neatly folded clothes; that mysterious folding method all mom's know but I
could never seem to figure out,
"Son, you won't know. You won't know until you are poor, hungry, cold and exhausted everyday from trying to make something of your life. The character
you will build will help you later in life when you have a family of your own. I promise. I am not a tyrant, I care too much to see you widdle away here with me
in obscurity and waste all the dreams I know you have. I love you my baby."
--Mom's, even though they don't cut the umbilical chord...they cut the umbilical chord.

All my pwoblems,
who knows, maybe evwybody’s pwoblems
is due to da fact, due to da awful twuth
dat I am SPIDERMAN.

I know, I know. All da dumb jokes:
No flies on you, ha ha,
and da ones about what do I do wit all
doze extwa legs in bed. Well, dat’s funny yeah.
But you twy being
SPIDERMAN for a month or two. Go ahead.

You get doze cwazy calls fwom da
Gubbener askin you to twap some booglar who’s
only twying to wip off color T.V. sets.
Now, what do I cawre about T.V. sets?
But I pull on da suit, da stinkin suit,
wit da sucker cups on da fingers,
and get my wopes and wittle bundle of
equipment and den I go flying like cwazy
acwoss da town fwom woof top to woof top.
Till der he is. Some poor dumb color T.V. slob
and I fall on him and we westle a widdle
until I get him all woped. So big deal.

You tink when you SPIDERMAN
der’s sometin big going to happen to you.
Well, I tell you what. It don’t happen dat way.
Nuttin happens. Gubbener calls, I go.
Bwing him to powice, Gubbener calls again,
like dat over and over.

I tink I twy sometin diffunt. I tink I twy
sometin excitin like wacing cawrs. Sometin to make
my heart beat at a difwent wate.
But den you just can’t quit being sometin like
SPIDERMAN.
You SPIDERMAN for life. Fowever. I can’t even
buin my suit. It won’t buin. It’s fwame wesistent.
So maybe dat’s youwr pwoblem too, who knows.
Maybe dat’s da whole pwoblem wif evwytin.
Nobody can buin der suits, dey all fwame wesistent.
Who knows?
--JIM HALL

character styles, characters we’ve missed

attempted to put on pedestals

characters whose wits got them out of the worst situations

or whose worst qualities got them into the best ones

who have been balding and have ended up heroes

who have overcome obstacles, some

some who had less and and achieved more

but achievement seems to be the underscore, yes

of nationality?  of pride?  of masculinity?  of assertion?  hard to say

do we need more stories in more forms or fewer stories and more individuality, more self-awareness,

awareness, awareness, awareness, funny word thrown around a lot

do people even know?  most of the time they don’t, they are staring down at their shoes

or some characters are looking up at the sky

anyways, they don’t understand the issue, what is at stake, stop celebrating!  start studying!

or you are studying too much!  the wrong drugs, the right drugs!  too much of the right thing can make anyone go insane

or the other way around, the right amount of the wrong thing can make anyone go freely about their day,  and

achieve, back to that word

and what does it even mean?  to achieve something?  greater than yourself?  for yourself to be a reflection of that thing? or that thing to be a reflection of self?  

man, we could debate about this for hours, where’s my coffee?  or beer, or wine, your choosing

man, what did I have for breakfast, I honestly forgot

or no, it was toast and cofffee, yes I think its time for a stiff drink now

and then another hour to achieve something, to write something, to widdle something, to create something that was not there before

but some say GO, **!! BA HA!  to hell with objectivity, everything is recycled, nothing more

and they wave their hands about as if it was borrowed from a magician, and their hearts flare up with some sort of richeousness, and they achieve…rightness?

back to that again…achievement…what does it even mean?

bee da fee da fee deedledee
feel boo dumb da fee fee fee
see what you want and hear what you see
you'll find you're picking from a cherry tree
ickie fickle pickle picker tickle chuckle lemon pucker
naps and cuddles and jumping in puddles
playin on the fiddle I'm a monkey in the middle

Ponyo Kahlo
Siddle Widdle Cookie Wookster
Queen Maddie Schizofranny
Victor Victor Jackie Jackie
meowy meowy meow!

Nirbhaya

I might cry, I might weep, I might grieve,
But today you have to perceive,
A truth for my relieve.
I know you know, I won't deceive.

She called me Nirbhaya, my mother,
Fearless and brave I ought to be.
Something she knew about this world,
So harsh it is meant to be.

It was a usual night,
all strangers but no fright.
I took the same road to home,
the road which guarded for years in lone.

I walked the lonely road,
I do not fear, my name held my hope.
All I fear is that it do not end,
as hope is no less than a rope.

It varies in length,
It varies in strength,
It's nothing to cloy,
But it's not a forever joy.

The roads were getting longer,
My heart wore a dismal veil.
It all seemed so tedious to reach,
with fright it started a peculiar gale.

I must not stop, I must go on,
I held my hope and I went on.
Why do I fear if nothing good appear,
In the name of my god I can cheer.

Far at the horizon some shapes appeared,
I held my breath, the breeze were wierd.
I held my faith and like a knight I went,
No horse, no shield, what on earth did I meant.

In my bravery I was lost,
Thence the men appeared.
What a fool I was for what will it cost,
The dreary eyes with a dreary beard.

Side by side they shoved,
The men not more than two.
All my breaths were choked,
What did they meant to do.

I scrambled at once,
Nor besides nor abaft I looked.
The footsteps broke the silence,
The silent night was spooked.

Out of the blue my hand was seized,
All at once I turned.
The dreadful two met my eyes,
Out my heart it burned.

“Unhand me! let me go!”,
To break loose I tried.
Tears did rolled down my cheeks,
I screamed and yelled and cried.

No good men did heard me,
No one did follow.
What pleasures would they earn,
hearing me weep and wallow.

All my yells were ceased,
tried to flee through my eyes.
Top to bottom I was teased,
till every yell turned to sighs.

Eftsoon my eyes wore a veil,
fear spread its wings.
None to follow the trail,
A dark melody it sings.

I resisted their temptation,
Down the road I was shuffled.
I totterd while learning to walk,
But no one ever hustled.

In a while the groping concluded,
And out my heart I sobbed.
Henceforth a while I stood untouched,
But still the painful heartbeats throbbed.

I faltered, and horrified I stood,
Darkness  engulped my eyes.
Every hope did swept,
Soaked into the veil that ties.

But not for too long I enjoyed,
this harrowing freedom of mine.
A palm explored the wonders,
that groping reckless swine.

He mauled as the time passed by,
He laughed as I cried.
I was and feeble,
the more I weeped the more he tried.

One by one they parted,
Piece by piece he ripped my skin.
Victim of the vigorous haste,
slivered top and slivered jeans off the shin.

Soon he swayed all my flesh,
With all his fingers he plied.
Groped my skin with all his filth,
I weeped and sobbed and cried.

Trying to hide the genitals,
There I stood naked.
What else  men can do,
It was anticipated.

Disobliging did annoy ,
Forthwith the veil was swept.
I was a plaything for their joy,
All my grieve I wept.

From one to another I was tossed ,
each leaving a scar.
Feasting their wildest lust,
all the planets and I their star.

A few more added,
added to the raging set.
Brawling for my flesh,
Like their dreams they met.

Off they took their covers ,
Little by little they shed.
A few times they snick,
All my faith I bled.

All my hopes I lost,
Their scrubbing skin did scraped.
It’s facile to die a thousand times,
Then for once being *****.

So inhumanly it pierced,
Out my heart it ripped.
Tears did impelled down my cheeks ,
The cheeks made to be felt or kissed.

Draining smoke and widdle and ***,
Turn by turn they shagged.
Offering an eternal torment,
All my grace they blagged.

Seconds felt like hours,
hours like days .
No wonder mere humans were they,
The devil hath their ways.

Like a setting sun they frazzled,
a sun of endless grieve.
I the wonky that they dazzled,
Or what did they perceive.

I should not walk the roads,
Nor I should talk to thee.
For I will turn to a harlot,
Who knows what else you might see.

Soon I was abandoned ,
withered by some ghoul.
I wasn’t the pioneer,
The devil needed a new soul.

The dark night overwhelmed,
Leaving me unconsumed, uneaten,untouched.
My snivel sealed through the silence,
Bethinking how they groped or clutched.

Like every other night this one too,
Passed in grieves that can’t be undone.
Day and night, night and day,
Who can seize the cycles of the sun.

Countless nights have passed ,
My heart still miss some beats .
Beseech the will to pretermit ,
The memory has it on its sheets.

I saw no good men that day,
No god did appear.
I could never raise my head and stay,
This memory will never disappear.

What a fool I was ,
I should have run.
But had I any choice,
to flee or to shun.

If not here then there,
Round in the world somewhere,
They will come for it, the bust,
to feed the endless lust.

I saw no good men that day,
No god did appear .
Just a few men to say,
I bought a disgrace, I should disappear.

Why was i a shame ?,
All my esteem they drown.
Those lecherous souls do gladly glide,
bearing a princely crown.

I was the culprit,
They were young and proud.
I was looted of my treasure,
Not all they took but left a shroud.

The beasts in there were grim,
The nobles out here no less.
To them my yells were hymm,
To them I lost my nobelesse.

Since we were toddlers
We've had the move;
Something like a siddle,
The sway of balance
On the right/left shift.
But a siddle's for a snake,
A wiggle's for a worm,
And my dog waggles
When I return.

We stop, we wait,
Frozen, and confused;
We're a bit ticked-off
We can't pull this off
In a dance of decisive moves.

We've seen our share
Of waddling sops
Leave sidedoors
On Sunday mornings.
That's not what we do.

I've stopped a tot
From toddling,
Yet now I can't help you.

It's not a reel, a jig or clog,
It's like a line-dance of two frogs.
Then I hear Yeats' fiddler,
And I commence to be a widdler.
When you meet your doppel-widdler,
Don't look,
Don't ask,
Don't take long,
Just widdle past
To the fiddler's song.

We do our best,
Use varying syntax,
Rhythm, rhyme and meter.
Our words are picked
From the garden variety,
But the themes are from
The Prodigal Son.
Is there nothing new
Under the sun?
I'm writing the same poem
Over and over:
Variations on the same themes:
Love, Life, Death, Family,
Power, Wealth, Nature,
Fatted Calves, etc.

I could invent new words,
But the meaning would
Convey the same:
I widdle you.
Your soft sortesches condestort in mine.
It all sounds too familiar
In any language.
We need a new world
Where arms reach from our heads
To bypass the thoughts transferred
To our sortesches holding folences
That pen our work.

Bugs
Little bitty bugs
With itty bitty legs

Hugs
Tiny widdle hugs
wrap around my legs
and it bugs me

Shrugs
Teeny bugs
Itty Widdle mugs
Smile and wave
at me

Tugs
Tug at my heart it does
Tugging
Holding on my pants
Grabbing the cloth
gathered at my knees.

Bugs.
Little bitty bugs
Biting at my shins
I begin a life of hope
But sins had shaped my hair
So I lugged in a soap opera chair

And I sat.
And I stared.

Dry hugs held in hope
Fried hope crisped the open air.
Listen, missed is open air. held in an open trope.

Misty the cat curls upon the furry mat listening to pitter patter on the windowpane..but this lazy lump doesn’t like getting wet so she tucks her tail in and snuggles up again

But Misty the cat needs a widdle and she cannot hold it in anymore..so she gets up reluctantly yet has left it too late and dribbles all over the flloor.. Well when her mistress arouses from her catnap she notices the puddle by her chair..and strangely enough no Misty can be found though that smell of cat’s wee is in the air..

“MISTY” her mistress yells and bawls.. as she turns an awful shade of red.. huh Misty hears her bad tempered tone as she is crouched down under the bed.. Of course the little lady cleans up the mess and makes herself a nice cup of tea.. while Misty the cat falls fast asleep under her mistresses bed happily..

Eye are us on IRS
Simplify that tax plan, man,
Widdle ole corporations
Need a break, for Christ’s sake!

Millionaires need more money, honey.
On our backs, poor middle class
Trillionize deficit spending
Always has a happy ending

For the few by the many
Conservative fiscally; riskally
Trickle down, IRS
Golden rain on all of us

There it sat,
To my left,
A great big heft,
To carry the middle,
Not the right,
Left grew to a widdle,
It's bones very light,
Even with all her might,
She couldn't take flight,
But she can still fight,
Her muscles still tight,
If you put her in the air,
She could be a kite,
In her sight,
All that was left,
Was a back to the corner,
The background paper white,
The light was so bright,
It shone to a new height,
Even in the night,
She stays to the left,
She never goes right,
Because there is nothing left.

Envy

Lust

Anger

Greed

Joy

Hope

Sadness

Anxious

Happy

Emo­tions
What is the point of emotions?
Get attached
Get hurt
Be alone
Get hurt

Emotions are a poison
And a cure
All at the same time

You can't live with them
But you can't survive without them

My jealousy
My anxiety
My depression
My envy
My lust

They destroy me
They widdle away at me
Making me feel like a monster
Making me feel pathetic

My joy
My hope
My faith
My trust

They shine a light
In my darkness
But they only last for a fleeting moment
Before they begin
Their destruction

All of these emotions
Spin in my head
And my heart
Constantly
24/7
And I can't shut them out
I can't shut them up

They are voices in my head
That battle to be in the spotlight

They make me weak
They make me strong
They tear me down
They build me up

What's the point of emotions?
When they seem like bad luck

It feels like a cruel joke
As they spin
And spin
And spin
In my head

The worst of them all though
Isn't one I have said
For the worst of them all

Is *love