Man

If I were a man,

I’d want to dick around too.

But you know what I’d do?

I’d train my brain and my dick,

To pretend that one vagina,

Was as many as I want.

So I don’t hurt that one,

Heart and brain that agreed,

To go through shitstorms with me.

Ma

A mother,

Dangles her baby,

Saying, here, take it.

I love you more,

Than I love the baby.

And you still sneer,

And say, fuck off.

Turban troubles: A not so metaphorical true story.

PG18

*All the characters are real, the names haven’t been changed*

Once upon a time, a young whore was born out of, probably a wedlock. The young whore was braindead at birth. Her eyes looked North and she saw South. Her teeth grew like a heavily fertilised cornfield, too many to line up in the jaw. She went to school and did not pay attention to the teachers, but instead kept admiring her fingernails.

As the young whore grew, her grassy hair grew and she learnt a thing or two about tying them into a whorilicious way. She learned about co-ordinating skirts with blouses and hot pants with tank tops. She attended a “fashion school” to learn this. As she reached her 20s, her hemline went higher and higher and the neckline went deeper and deeper. Despite this, the little whore was not able to walk, talk and act like a whore because she was trapped in a family who lived by the book.

One day, as the whore was juggling jobs as a showgirl juggling her boobs, a young, lost soul caught her eyes. She spread her legs wide open and immediately the lost soul decided to marry her to be the sole owner of those legs and that body. The lost soul started out humble but worked hard and reached places in life which the whore had never heard of.

Being free from the shackles of her family, she started her Babylonian epic whore journey, spreading her unfertilised eggs, from one man to another. In the meantime, the lost soul was clueless about his little whore’s business and loved her dearly and showered her with the latest gadgets. iPhone, myphone, a lot of phones were given to her to communicate with her.

But alas! the lost soul failed to see that the little whore was guzzling wine and beer like a parched whale and making other lost souls fall from heaven like Lucifer. The elixir of alcohol went to her braindead head and she looked in the mirror and saw a demigoddess. She levitated with a delusional delight and her feet never touched the ground. Of course, her knees did a lot of groundwork, performing fellatio on any male genitals that came her way. At one point there was also an equally braindead whore who decided to facilitate each other’s deviant desires while the lost soul looked on.

A decade passed by and the whore decided that she needed to mess around with more genitals. She moved to another country seeking cheaper wine and cigarettes and gullible middle-aged men. Her eyes had gone puffy, her voice had grown hoarser, and she was still grotesquely attractive to men. Another dumbass lost soul came her way and they fornicated each other’s brains out, not that there was much to lose to begin with. The dumbass had a star by his side who guided him back to his heaven. The whore kept on luring him back in, and the guardian angels stopped him many a times.

The star that stood by the lost soul’s side while he vomited the germs passed on by the whore, was mangled up, smashed and left at the curb side, begging for help from a child. At last the lost soul opened his eyes and saw the light. He gave his star his American Express Platinum card and the star transformed into Superwoman overnight. Superwoman shouted a lot, because she was dealing with dumbasses and the dumbasses paid no heed to the words and registered the noise as abuse. (*eye roll)

After much deliberation and debates between his brain and phallus, the lost soul decided that the star was indeed right and decided to follow her path. There were slip-ups, mind you, but the star stood her ground. One day, the whore lured the lost soul into a seedy watering hole and filled him to the brim with alcohol. Then, the little whore produced a pack of cigarettes that were hidden in her ass crack and they both smoked like an industrial chimney. They rolled home in their carriage, drunk as skunk and slapped the star across her face.

Now the star got very very angry and decided to bulldoze the whore once and for all. Collected but uncalm within, the star hatched a plan to demolish the harlot. After multiple attempts, she succeeded; first crushing her sunglasses, next crushing her head which was quite easy as there was nothing within and finally, crushing the whore entirely with a speeding truck. The star smiled with a deep sigh of relief and told the lost souls, both of them, “And that’s how you kill a whore.”

The End

Living without BOYS

In a decade, I haven’t been alone. And I mean ALL ALONE. Four cups of coffee down and I feel like a new me.

I just realised the toilet seat can stay down 24 hours now. There’s no aimless yellow sprinkling all over the toilet.

I just realised I can wake up anytime, sleep anytime and eat anytime. I am not a mother, I am not a wife. I am ME. I can stand on my feet without anyone’s help. I am still hurting. A LOT. An unpardonable sin was committed and I will perhaps never forgive the sinner. But I came out stronger.

A 79 year old man, a lonely homosexual woman, friends from far away in time and space helped me. There is still hope in the world. People are nice when you are nice to them. For the first time ever, I believe!

Thank You all for your support and kind words. Strangers, but not so strange. And women out there, it REALLY us that have the power. Patriarchal society, my ass. We make them from scratch inside our bodies with just a drop from anyone. 😜 We are smart, that’s why we put our feet up and get pedicures while the “patriarchal head” brings home the bacon.

-Hugs!

Boomerang

I was sixteen,

Father was fifty.

I was ill,

Mother was at work.

Father came home early

To check on me.

I asked for hot cocoa,

He made it for me.

Handed me the cup,

It slipped off of me.

I cried like a child,

Sobbing, “Sorry, Daddy”

He said it’s alright,

And wiped the spill.

Years went by,

Father was sixty eight.

I was a grown woman,

Father got sick,

He was in pain.

I brought him home,

To keep him company.

Drugged and confused,

He asked for a juice.

I held the drink to his mouth,

The straw slipped with a splash.

He said, “Sorry dear, I am weak”

I said, “It’s okay Daddy, sometimes,

We all get a little sick.”

A down-feather sleeping bag

A bucolic home with windows wide

On a gently raising mound,

Green grass by the pond,

And virgin snow on the side.

Dirty stream of barley water,

Smokey herds of the sheep,

Beckoned the clear skies,

And us two, within.

By the warmth of the fire,

By the quiet of the night,

By the wit in your marrow,

You said we were not right.

“Happy Birthday”, sang I,

Curled up in a sleeping bag,

Waiting for the frost to take over,

Zipped and carted with a lag.

Left me on a mountain top,

Didn’t fret about the hop.

A million little pieces fell,

In that snowy little hell.

Someday, when I’m old,

Older than an oak,

I’d like to tell the story,

To my kin and folk.

I promise I will not cry,

As I cried that night.

But promises are seldom kept,

As you proved by the light.