The Fury of Sin

The Fury of Sin

I have seen, in the mist of reflection,

the depth of unknown possibilities.

The earth toned orbs with which I view the world

reveal a swift, patient beauty

that fears the detachment of memory and regret.

Such a sin breathes a sullied life

into this stretched and torn body;

a sin that defiles and wounds,

pushing forward pain

and allowing it to foam and cascade

out through these glossy marbles

as a waterfall over a mossy cliff.

An unkind word once bruised me,

forcing me into a deafening submission.

A wicked strike once raped me,

shaming my good name

and killing the hope that once flourished within;

a bold, full flower now wilted and corrupt.

With such sad anguish,

life has become a mere stain,

a blot of existence moving

neither forward nor back.

Time continues to erode the physical

but the mind remains untouched,

unfiltered by youthful experience

and the mercy of forgiveness.

This limbo claims my withered spirit

and makes me prisoner

in her damp cell of uncertainty.

To be a soldier and escape internal war

would make a ravished soul

worthy of redemption.

But with no weapons to fight

and no armor to soften the blow,

how can these eyes survive

the fury of sin?

December 11, 2011

Sylvia

I've written a poem about one of my greatest inspirations: Sylvia Plath. She was such an amazing poet and strong, troubled woman. Sometimes I think we suffer from the same inner demons and insecurities. I know I may never be as good of a poet as she was but I will still continue to try to express my feelings through pen and paper. Maybe one day I will inspire someone as much as she's inspired me. Here's to you, Sylvia.

Sylvia

Sylvia, you were there

right in the thick of life,

straining for an answer

and begging for a reason

as to the cruelty inflicted

by inhaling hope and

exhaling constant pain.

The talent was evident,

hidden deep below regret

of a career wasted; a dream covered

by the excrement of deceit.

With ample passion and a voice thick with truth,

you were destined for greatness, Sylvia.

The pride is clear in the cherub faces

of your orphaned children.

You hid your fearful secrets

underneath that yew tree,

carefully planting a massive seed

of doubt into the roots,

allowing the poison to seep through your psyche

and foul your waking dreams.

The risk of sanity blew against you once

but you knew better than to succumb.

That foreseeable, colorless road

would have enslaved you

and drowned you sooner than before.

I envy your descent, Sylvia.

You, a pioneer for bravery,

have made us all unworthy -

sad miscreants full of emptiness,

afraid to push down the blade

and sever the weakness coursing

through the traffic jam of veins

that keep the soul afloat.

The fear, hurt, and betrayal

are what defile and rape us

leaving nothing behind but

the stench of undue decay.

But Sylvia, you have inspired me.

Your power over the pen

and command of the poetic voice

have enraptured me,

seized my heart,

and fulfilled a manic need in me -

a need to express that same affliction

that haunted you for so long.

And perhaps my defeat

will be similarly death with

when it hollows out my essence

and leaves me reeking of exhaust,

molding with the leftover crumbs

littered on the kitchen floor.

December 1, 2011

The Disease of Memory; Cripple

I haven't written in over 6th months - scratch that. I haven't BLOGGED in over 6th months. I haven't really written anything GOOD in the past, well, year...but I did just recently write this and thought I would share. The message is basically that I'm getting old...and I can feel it. And now as I try to get my act together, I simply can't get this harrowing thought from my mind: What exactly happened to my life?

The Disease of Memory

The winds of change are upon me,

thrusting me forward

against a stiff, unforgiving will.

My bones are hollow

with age and useless knowledge;

they crack and whither

as I struggle with a predictable future

that haunts my waking dreams

and abuses my fear of failure.

This calamity of aging has fouled me.

It's unkind without patience

and violates me,

the rape of a fatigued life.

And I am helpless

as I fight for the past,

for an unmolested childhood,

for freedom from vivid, ruthless pain.

My epic journey is halted

as I allow the plague of boredom

to overcome my cantankerous soul

and cloud me with powerless grief

and a plethora of guilt from a life wasted

on the disease of memory.

- November 25, 2011

I also wrote this next one recently and I kinda like it. The repetition is pretty interesting. I kinda like it...and that's pretty rare of me to say!

Cripple

Today I saw a cripple

with a cripple walk,

dragging his crippled feet

and I thought a crippling thought:

I would like to be that cripple,

that cripple right there,

as he receives his cripple checks

from the crippling government.

I suppose I already am that cripple

with my crippled disposition

and the crippling obsession

with my crippled death.

I guess I share his cripple name,

drowning in the glow of crippling glances

from those crippling non-cripples

as they use their cripple polite voices

while passing me in the street,

me and my crippleness.

Some are anti-cripple; they deny

my presence with opposed looks.

No waves. No assistance.

Not even a crippled glance.

They must be the hidden cripples

with their crippling jobs,

over abundance of crippling children,

crippled spouses with crippling lies,

forcing each other into a crippling divorce.

The love, it cripples right before them

until their crippled hearts lose movement,

spirit, and that last bit of crippled hope.

And when the crippling overcomes them

and seeps into the slowly crippling mind,

I'll make sure to deny their crippled eyes

as they search for uncrippled guidance

in this crippled world where they once ignored

the crippling smile of their crippled savior.

- November 8, 2011

A Poem for My Favorite Person

Exactly 6 months ago, an extremely wonderful man asked me to marry him by hiding a ring in the second Harry Potter book on the night of the midnight premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1. I opened it the book and as a beautiful diamond ring fell out onto my lap, I immediately yelled, "YES!", before he could even ask me the question that I had been waiting 3 and a half years to hear. I have lived/survived through many very difficult events throughout my life and long ago I came to the naive conclusion that I was doomed to be the unluckiest woman for the rest of my pitiful, depressing life. But when I met Jay Brandon Budzon, my life changed drastically, and I finally started feeling as though I actually had a purpose and that I might be blessed with happiness and endless love.

I am most definitely blessed.

Brandon is the greatest, most amazing and wonderful thing to happen to me. I am so happy that I get to spend my life with the kindest, smartest, goofiest, most handsome 'geek' who still makes me blush when I see him in his Geek Squad uniform. Not only is he a passionate lover but he's also my very best friend.

I have written a poem fully dedicated to my future husband who treats me like a queen. I love him more than anything and can't wait to grow old in his arms.

I love you, Brandon!!

Benevolent Brandon

Singing softly

of your tender heart

entices envy

in the sweetest of birds.

They look to me

with eyes of jealousy

for your endless love

breathes furiously

through every delicate note

as I praise you

and all that becomes you.

You carry kindness

with full, gentle hands,

each finger grasping my soul

and enveloping it with safety.

Passionate eyes

adorning your porcelain face

swim through mine

and penetrate my secrets,

freeing me from guilt,

from pitiful pain,

from the echoed voices

of past deceptions

and vicious criminals

who raped me of my innocence

and the ability to trust.

Your plump, merciful lips

feed me all the nourishment necessary

to believe in effortless generosity.

They give me reassurance

and confidence in the magic

that radiates between us.

I am forever bound

to you and the affection

that continues to grow

and build us together

as two lives entwine

into one sacred voyage

that fuels our passion

and makes eternity seem

far too short.

May 18, 2011

Even A Beautiful Day Can't Suffice

Stepping into this Hallmark day,

my senses are invaded

by the natural blood of nature.

Sounds are overwhelming,

birds unseen spouting sonnets

to the brilliant, rising sun;

the fluttering of leaves

being gently tossed by the wind

as a smooth current of the sea

sways a sailboat;

the vibrant greens reaching desperately

for their neighbors in adjacent trees;

simple cries of faraway children

enveloped in outside play.

My nose makes a familiar twitch

as a furious inhale invites

the fresh flavor of morning dew

infused with soft lilies.

The bark of the mountainous oaks

breathes of strength and unavoidable power;

light brown dirt beneath my feet

sifting up my nostrils,

reeking of peppered earth

and the pungent scent of fresh-cut grass.

The quiet breeze kindles my back

and demands the obedience of my hair

which wisps and floats to its will.

My gooseflesh is called to the surface

as the wind attaches itself to a swift gust,

pilfering my warmth only briefly

before moving on to another heated soul.

The morning is kind and welcoming,

but my poor mood is not improved

as my mind remains poisoned

by a weighty depression too heavy

for my meek, debilitated shoulders.

This murderous disease consumes me

and extracts any thought of happiness

from my worried, exhausted conscience.

I pity every nerve belonging

to my lame, feeble leg.

My broken back, unable to carry

any weight cruel enough to cripple me,

begs to overcome every thought and each feeling

perpetrated by my careful heart.

My entire being wishes to become the fruitful day

and desist shying from her rays,

locking myself underground

in a dark, ominous oblivion.

The birds call to me,

yet their cries I cannot hear.

Leaves reach to me with green fingers

made tan by the summer sun's golden sauce.

But they are incapable of touching

my milky, translucent skin,

dulled by the smoke of darkness.

And the wind begs to play,

twisting the red curls of my hair

with his invisible fingers,

inviting himself to surround me completely.

Yet my nerves are jaded

by the slight potency of man-made remedies,

and I shy away from his coquetry

with sullen eyes and a stale hide.

I seal myself into a black prison

with little light and even less joy.

I am trapped by that invisible warden

who plagues my mind, denies me sleep,

steals away all comfort,

and withholds the satisfying taste of food.

How to overcome such a poison,

such a determined disease?

My mind offers no solution

while my will is completely fatigued,

beaten, broken by wicked sadness.

I struggle with the desire to live,

knowing death would be a swift ending

to my fatal misery.

But I could never again

be able to hear those hidden birds

whispering kind nothings

to all the world; never again

would I watch the leaves wrestle

with each other, their armies

great in number; never again

could I tempt the wind to tease me

with invisible gusts that crash

against my faint skin and lush hair.

And the earth once beneath my feet

will never again feel as light

when I'm entombed below

its heavy, smothering weight.

All things would be lost

in the final scene of death.

And yet I still keep the idea fresh,

available in my ill mind.

My patience is tested

as this illness festers boldly.

And the question begs once again

to be answered quickly and thoroughly:

how to overcome such sickness?

Will it eat my brain

like ants to a plump apple core?

And how shall I die?

Alone?

Still hungry for knowledge and life?

With the devil's hair wrapped tightly

around my neck as my limp body dangles

from lost life and a farewell note

crumpled up on the floor?

Perhaps these questions have no answers,

only possibilities that haunt thoughts

and foul dreams.

This foggy cell becomes home

and my soul becomes polluted

by the haze and stench

of my rotting psyche.

I'm not alive but my heart beats,

a pulse that allows the sadness to spread.

My death would be courageous

yet confidence was consumed and digested

by this fearless beast

years and years ago.

May 1, 2011

Edited May 7, 2011

Tricks and New Glasses!!!

Early this morning I finished a book that I started reading last night titled Tricks, by Ellen Hopkins. It was recommended to me by my dear cousin, Paige. I have read most of Hopkins's other books which are comprised of poems that tell a story. The whole book is written in poetic form and the way Hopkins organizes them and uses them to tell the story of 5 teens on the verge of prostitution is truly genius.

The book tells the stories of Eden, Seth, Whitney, Ginger, and Cody, all teens from different areas of the US who all end up crossing stories in Las Vegas, otherwise known as Sin City. And the only thing they end up committing in Sin City is, well, sin. Hopkins teaches her young adult readers about the dangers of teen prostitution and how most of these teens end up abusing drugs and/or alcohol.

Although it is a book for young adults, I enjoyed it very much. All of Hopkins's books deal with some sort of substance abuse, suicide, or other dangerous issues. My favorite (and the first one I ever read by her) was Crank, which illustrates the life of a young teen who gets addicted to crack, among other things. After reading her books I often find myself thinking that they may not be very suitable for some teens. But then I think about my teenage cousin, Paige, and I come to the conclusion that perhaps only those teens who are slightly more mature for their age should read them. Personally, due to the graphic nature of the material, I think mature teens are the only ones who could really understand and handle the novels and the ideas and themes Hopkins bring to light within them. So, parents, you may want to be slightly concerned and if you find that your teen IS reading one of these books, sit down and speak to them about the issues and dangers in the book and why they are actually beneficial to know.

Some of the poems in Tricks really struck a chord with me. I'm going to include them here. Note how Hopkins arranges the lines of the poem so that certain words end up creating a collective thought when read from top to bottom.

Bleed (pg. 213)

Open a vein, feel

the rush, exodus,

delicious.

Don't be afraid,

there's no pain

in the letting,

delectable.

Watch the red

flow, let it go,

drip,

make it slow,

drip.

If you've done

it right, you won't

wake from the night's

indescribably peaceful

dream.

Need (pg. 245)

Need is a curious thing.

Until you plant the seed,

nurture it, encourage its

awakening,

you're not even sure

it's there. But once it

germinates, nudges up,

breaking ground,

you can no longer deny

it has always lain dormant

inside you. And now,

blossoming

with every kiss, every

touch of his hand, this

new kind of need is

growing,

sprouting shoots,

tendrils of desire

threading you,

consuming you.

Shrinking (pg. 488)

Do you know how it

feels to be shrinking?

Withering away into

nothing

more than a memory?

You need to put one foot

in front of the other,

but

running in place

is all you can do.

How do you overcome

pain

when it's something

you breathe, a blast

of hot exhaust

in your

face, something turned

you must eat, or starve?

How do you search for

tomorrow

when you're mired

in an endless today?

When You Weren't Looking (pg. 616)

The child became a woman,

though she wasn't ready

to. Don't ask how or

why.

Those questions are not

the important ones.

Can't you

see you didn't

care

enough to notice?

How will you feel

if we have no

more

time together? I wonder

if you're sorry now

about

the way you locked your

heart, access denied to

the beggar at your door.

She's nobody, only

me.

All in all, the book was a good read. It only took me a couple of hours to get through the 625 pages (due to the fact it's all in poems, you get through it A LOT quicker than you think you can), and I highly recommend it. It's a very interesting read. I also recommend her other books, like Crank (as I mentioned before), Impulse, and Glass.

My rating? 7 out of 10 stars. Now go read it!!

On another completely unrelated note, I got my new glasses!!! YAY! And although this isn't the best picture, I must brag a little here about how I haven't washed my hair in days and I still think it looks like movie star hair. Yeah...didn't do a single thing to it besides comb it last time I exited the shower. I know, I know...you're jealous. : )

Don't ask me why I always make that stupid face...for some strange reason it just sort of happens whenever there's a camera in front of my face.

Here's a slightly better pic of the glasses. They're bright blue on the inside of the frames! They aren't much different than my old ones but the blue makes them a lot hipper! I love them!! If you still can't see them, here's a better pic.

Handsome Redemption

I came to you

shattered

violated

hunting for a rescue

and a sturdy wall

on which to lean

my beaten soul and mind.

You are the warm milk,

comforting

coating

my brittle stomach,

cleansing the fear,

burying my starvation

to unreachable depths.

My shield you have become.

I came to you

as a lost girl.

You carried me

as a faithful basket

holds a joyous picnic,

carried me to womanhood

with kindness and beauty,

lust and fascination,

patience and duty.

Every bit of love that leaks

from your simple lips

is echoed to a perfect match

in my eyes.

My heart burns full

for yours is full.

I am quite found

because you are never lost.

And you are now whole

for I gave you me

and made it so.

April 24, 2011

Disguise

Unbeknownst to all

my truest form

is that of a wild flower,

a fiery red lily,

a shining dewed lily,

untamable by man

or any other creature

wishing to harness such power.

As this rich beauty

I am able to fly far

and carry my sorrows away

and lose them over the sea,

and bury them into the sea.

My felt petals are wings

used to sore through the pain

that has thus caused my heart to stray.

My stem keeps me rooted -

regret at its best -

and hinders true freedom; kind trust.

I must let it be,

I shall make it be

a reminder of the fragility

of life and of love and the spoils

of a heart stained with lust.

This form is my home,

my soul's ultimate comfort,

happiness to be free.

It is me,

yes, it is me

and all that I am

and all I might become

if only I were but free;

if only I were but me.

April 17, 2011

This Unlikely Suicide

I am the only beached whale in Indiana.

Baked.

Fried.

Deflated; defeated

yet liberated.

My transient kind

has ruffled the waves of the shore

and crushed its sand beneath

my 8 ton self.

This unlikely suicide is slow.

I suffocate

as the air from enemy lungs

evaporates my skin

and peels away

my desire for my journey

through the willowy waters of memory.

I chose this death.

I used my enormous fins

to propel my body to this grave

until my belly was rubbed raw

by the gritty footprints

of sun-kissed children

and red faced lovers.

The commotion of the sea overwhelms me;

I simply must give it up.

My tortured, peanut soul

is loosing momentum.

I am a predator to her children

so the sea has cast me away

with violent care and chilly stares.

I lose patience

and throw myself to the mercy

of land unknown.

Death could be the ultimate wave

and I already have a tan.

November 12, 2010

Lucky Lady in My Bed

Hold me

like I held her,

that lucky lady in my bed.

With the bellies of the sheets

exposed

and littered with sex

and dirt and dead skin,

she crawls to me

like a hungry fire ant

with speed and determination;

a thieving leprechaun

anticipating a plump bounty.

I could want you

just this way,

if I had the need

to be a focused red ant.

Order me

to be your queen

and I will surrender

unto you

such secret hiding places

that you will become the green pirate

to plunder what is hidden

and protect

what remains too revealing

and misunderstood

by parasites reading the bible

to their children

and by disappointing men

pulling wives with leashes

glued to ivory necks

and young girls with reins,

whipping fragile souls

with unnecessary discipline.

Don't be afraid

to be the Other.

In a world shaped daily

by copied perfection,

it's nice to be aroused

by erotic flaws

and the orgasmic release of difference.

March 22, 2011

A Reliable Wife: A Reliably Good Read

"You can live with hopelessness for only so long before you are, in fact, hopeless." - pg. 8

After reading this line within the first few pages of the novel, I knew that I was getting myself into a sad, depressing story...and I was actually excited by the idea. Who doesn't love a great story about death, sadness, broken love, murder, mystery?! Today, I finished reading this book, A Reliable Wife by Robert Goolrick. I started it on Monday afternoon. Needless to say, I really couldn't put it down. Goolrick writes with such poetic beauty that you can almost tell he himself must just be some broken hearted man with a writing obsession. This painful story is about a young woman, Catherine Land, who answers an ad for - what else? - a reliable wife. But she doesn't want love. She doesn't even want a long, fruitful marriage. She really only wants one thing...to kill her future husband and take all of his money. But the older, disgustingly wealthy man who placed the ad from a wintry Wisconsin town (named after his family) in 1907 has a few plans of his own in this gripping tale of deceit, betrayal, and the unbelievably difficult burden of forgiveness.

Although the writing was very entrancing (and oddly not boring, considering there wasn't much dialogue), Goolrick does lose his reader at some points when he jumps from one big event to the other in a matter of just a few words. At one point, I reread a certain 2 paragraphs 4 times before I realized what exactly had happened...a certain character was literally taken from the story in just 2 paragraphs and we still don't know why. Save for that one confusion, I felt the story was moving, erotic (very erotic), sensual, and desperately sad. It didn't quite push me to tears but I did have quite a naughty dream Monday night! (Stop blushing! We're all adults here!)

I was very confused in the beginning because it read almost exactly how the movie Original Sin (Antonio Banderas, Angelina Jolie) started. After finishing the book, I find it different from the movie but there are similar aspects that, if you've seen the movie, you won't be able to deny the likeness. (Remember all of those provocative sex scenes with Antonio and Angelina?! Yeah...exactly!)

Anyways, is it worth your time? Yes, I believe so. It's an entertaining read that is very difficult to put down. At 291 pages, you will probably be able to read it in a matter of a week and you WILL enjoy it, I promise. I give it a 7.5 out of 10 stars. (Hahahaa...another rating. :D) My favorite paragraph? Pg. 190 "The glass of water comforted him, and he clung to the habit with tenacity. The water meant nothing in itself. He was rarely thirsty. The ritual meant everything, a moment to close the day, the moisture on his dry lips like a soft kiss." - I, too, must sleep next to a glass of water every night not because I'm thirsty, but because I've just always been like that...always. I couldn't have described the habitual feeling any better. Thanks, Goolrick!

Apparently, it's being made into a movie. I'm not going to lie...I pictured myself being cast as Catherine Land! Me, a boring, bland lady playing the role of a tricky courtesan. How exciting to play such an intriguing character! Hey, 'such things happen!'

A Very Thirsty Cat

Ummm...WHY can't my cats do amazingly adorable and hysterical things like this??

I think you might be able to see his parched soul at one point when he stares deeply into the camera. My cat just does this...

Ok, you have to admit, he's pretty damn cute. : )

NEW GLASSES!!!! Ok, so maybe only I am excited about this one...

On Tuesday, Brandon took me to Lenscrafters to finally get a new pair of glasses!!! The pair that I have now are like 5 years old (possibly older) and the protective lining on the right lens has almost peeled off completely! So, if I closed my left eye and looked at you, you'd look like a less gorgeous, blurrier version of yourself. (I'm talking to you, Rupert.)

Here are the new glasses I'm getting. Pretty schnazzy, huh?! Hip, fresh, fun...yes, yes all of these words describe not only me but the best pair of glasses for me! (Ok, so I may not be THAT fresh right now, seeing as how I need a shower.) They aren't too much different than the ones I wear now (ironically, the ones I have now are also DonnaKaran!),

but I didn't want to change that much. Sadly, the nice lady told me they won't be ready for 2 weeks due to the fact that they have to order special lenses for my horrible prescription. (Mine eyes are SHIT-eth.) I hate waiting...I don't have much patience for anything. I mean, I wake up every morning counting down the days closer to this. (CAN'T....WAIT.......97 days....)

Anyways, I will make sure to post a lovely picture of myself in my new 'gafas' once they arrive...because I know you're DYING to see my lovely face in new attire. CHEESE!!!

Wishful Thinking Towards King Henry VIII's Real Demeanor

So, I recently finished The Autobiography of Henry VIII by Margaret George. I must say, it was a thumping good read even though it was atrociously long - over 900 pages to not be exact. My obsession with the Tudor dynasty (primarily with Anne Boleyn and her daughter, Elizabeth I, The Virgin Queen) interested me in this book, because George so wittingly creates a life story of one of England's most notorious tyrants, writing it as though he would have written it himself. She takes a different road, showing us the softer side of the crazed ruler known for his licentious behavior and his ruthless beheading of 2 of his 6 wives, one of whom is an idol of mine - the ever witty and bold, Anne Boleyn.

The gripping yet everlasting tale is everything I knew it would be, having taken too much of my free time studying this particular time period. However, George doesn't convince me that King Henry VIII was anything but a womanizer, a tyrant, an idiot. Ok, ok...perhaps that was a little too harsh. He did break from the Catholic Church, leading a reformation in religion and providing the breeding ground for new religions to come popping up. But it seems to me that the majority of Henry's accomplishments come from the women behind him, not from his own fucked up mind. Why did he break from this church? To marry the coquettish beauty, Anne Boleyn, who has been said to have been a firm Protestant in a completely Catholic nation. And yet how did he award her for releasing him from the noose of a church filled with idolatry, corruption, and greed? Oh...that's right. He had her wrongly accused of adultery, seducing him with witchcraft, and incest, all of which had her beheaded as a traitor to the crown. The real reason he murdered a queen? She couldn't birth him a son. "Thanks for the 3 year anniversary gift, Henry darling!!!" Anne's pretty little head must be rolling over in the rotted arrow box under the concrete floor of the abandoned church that was her grave. Classy.

George tries to defend Henry's "grief" over the loss of his 5th wife, Catherine Howard, a young cousin of Anne Boleyn who was raised by an oblivious aunt, the Duchess, in a house with several other young ladies. The favorite hobby of these ladies? Inviting gentlemen into their quarters for what Professor McGonagall would call "ILL-mannered frivolity!" Naturally, to keep their secret from the innocuous Duchess, they recruited Lady Catherine Howard to their fun. After divorcing Anne of Cleves (played by Joss Stone in the Showtime series, The Tudors), Henry's 4th wife who lasted only a few months and was never actually crowned due to the fact that, well, she "looked like a horse", Catherine was placed in front of the King for nothing other than his disgusting pleasure...in between the ages of 14 and 16!!!!! (The official age is unknown but there is strong evidence she was married to King Henry around age 17.) FOURTEEN...talk about cradle robbing! So, if you do the math, Miss Howard was entertaining gentlemen in her bed around ages 11 and 12. Oh emm gee, people!!!

But did this 'rose without a thorn' stop entertaining after the King married her? Negative. And when he found out shortly after the marriage, Henry had her beheaded like a commoner (with an ax; not like he so 'graciously' had Anne murdered - with a special swordsman from France). Now, granted, I am no commissioner of adultery, but I find it ridiculous that he murdered a young TEENAGE woman who - dare I say it? - was EXACTLY LIKE HIM. He had more mistresses than the court could keep up with...and probably a lot more bastards out there than the rumored son he got from Anne Boleyn's sister, Mary (looked it up, doubtful it's true). The young - YOUNG - lass grew up in what was basically a high class version of a whore house and she was thrown into royalty before adulthood to an old (he was in his fifties), obese (reaching 300 lbs), tyrant!!! She did what she always did to fit in and find comfort...she did the nasty with a lot of men, including her cousin, the one she did 'it' with the most, Thomas Culpepper...tasty name and tasty in the Showtime hit, The Tudors.

Yum.

In the end, it was Culpepper who was Catherine's true love as it is rumored her last words on the scaffold were, "I die a Queen, but I would rather have died the wife of Culpepper." And even though he had A LOT of trouble with the ladies, Henry VIII is probably the most famous king in British history. Like they say, sex sells...and King Henry BANKED on his scandalous behavior. He eventually went mad - could it be he actually had a conscience, being haunted by the ghost of his 'rose without a thorn'?? Or perhaps he had the popular infirmity...syphilis?? Me thinks the latter...indeed.

George tells a delightful tale that's just that...a wishful, unrealistic tale in my eyes. But it IS an interesting story all the same. Beautifully written and keeps your attention. I give it a 8 out of 10 stars...hahahhaaa...if I was rating it. Well, what the hell? This is MY blog, I think I can rate it if I want!!! So there!! (That sudden outburst was not caused by the same disease that probably sucked all of the brain power from King Henry's head...I promise. More than likely it was due to the realization of the minute amount of power my blog gives me. Insert evil, diabolic laugh :::here:::.)

And that concludes my rant of what I REALLY think King Henry VIII was like. I'm right...right? Anyways, read it. Just do it...you know you want to.

NB: For those of you interested in the fabulous Showtime hit, The Tudors, let this fucktastic clip move you one step closer towards watching in on Netflix. Natalie Dormer as Anne Boleyn...a dream come true. (Jonathan Rhys Meyers looks mighty fine there too...not gonna lie.)

New, New, NEW!!

I have FINALLY changed the full layout of the horrific site that was this blog. Now, I believe, it's quite pretty!

This is the first step in my attempt to be motivated enough to blog more. Ok, ok...so, let's be honest: It may not happen...especially due to a distraction like this. Or perhaps this. Maybe this. Or EMBARRASSINGLY this. Ugh...that last one makes me ashamed to be a human being. (Most would disagree and say that my second distraction is the most embarrassing one but that's just because they don't understand the 'magic' of said distraction.)

But the most worthy distraction would have to be the following...allow yourself to now be distracted, and fully content no matter how shitty your day is.

Tessa Bear

I am such a bad mother.

I have written poems about all of my children (my pets are my children, duh) EXCEPT for Contessa, my sweet little calico cat. She's been a part of my family for almost 6 years (5 years longer than both Ellie and Avalon!) and I can't believe I have just recently finished a poem about her.

I'm not going to lie, it was tough. She's a tough gal to write about. But I think I succeeded...especially since the title is 'Tessa Bear' and she is, after all, my little bear. (Don't ask...we don't really know how it started. She's just always reminded me more of a little bear cub than a cat!)

Tessa Bear

Once I stumbled upon a bear,

a tiny cub of only four pounds,

with eyes that wilt

as dew droplets clinging

to the end of daisy petals

in warm morning air,

straining for the earth

as gravity applies his greedy pull.

This bear grew curious to me

as I found her to have long white whiskers

on either side of her blush button nose.

These whiskers fanned out

and fluttered a light breeze to her fur

where she twitched that nose

towards an unknown smell.

As the bear stretched towards me

with white gloved paws,

I saw her needle thin piercing nails

as they flexed out from each nub of a finger

and magically retreated

back into hibernation under the fur.

Such a bear was this!

This brown, black, and white blotted babe

became a miniature, harmless beast

with the love of play

and a need for cuddle.

In moments of grand excitement,

she roars with a voice

like soft raindrops against a black window.

And when comfort covers her,

the full vibrations humming out

through her chest provide a precious purr

to lull one to sleep.

She carries the feline silhouette

whilst dancing on fences in the moonlight.

Yet with a constant hunger

for the bitter sweetness of honey,

she remains my runt of a bear

whose purrs match my own in slumber

and whose sandpaper tongue

suckles my milk dipped fingers

like a cub to a mother's teat.

March 21, 2011

DA BEAR!!!

Taking a bite outta crime...