Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the tag “poetry”

The Poison Pen

Well, it happened today, and I have to say I’m just a bit excited. This uncouth, somewhat raunchy, fat bottom girl got her very first poem published in an actual publication, not just something I printed out of my garage on that old mimeograph machine.

It’s the first time I’ve ever had anything published, and I’m so glad it’s on Elephant Journal. Have you ever checked out Elephant Journal? It’s got a little bit of everything–poetry, astrology, relationship advice, healthy living, yoga–really, just a plethora of knowledge from tons of different authors.  Best part is, it’s almost free.  I say almost, because you can read three articles each day for free. I could never stop at three, so I bought a subscription for a mere $13 for a whole year, and it’s been some of the best money I’ve ever spent.

But without further ado, please, I’m begging you, go read, share with your friends, stay to read a couple more articles. Most of all, enjoy, as I’m hoping this is a first in a long line of published writing for me.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2015/08/leave-now-poem/

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Announcement

Wanted to share a little news with you all.  No, I’m not pregnant. That would be a physical impossibility at this point in my life, for numerous reasons.

I submitted a poem, which I posted here on my blog, to elephant journal, and they have accepted it for publication.  I was quite excited, since this was the first time I had ever submitted anything, anywhere. Thankfully they were kind enough not to make me wait too long, until they responded.

I will post the link when it’s published, and I hope you will take time to check out my poem, if you haven’t already, and elephant journal.  I’ve fallen in love with elephant journal over the last few months, and I hope you do too!

The Seas of You

I try to draw a breath
but my lungs won’t expand
to allow it

A wet veil has been
placed about my head
and it threatens to cut off
the life force of air

Swimming in your seas
has left me with a fear of drowning

“Test the waters you fool,” says my chastising voice. “Never dive in head first. When are you going to learn your lesson?”

But all is lost in the abyss
my ears are covered with water
and blackness begins to swirl around me

Missing Pieces

I want the scent of you to linger
on the pillow
long after the warmth of you has faded
from the sheets

Why must I be the one you run to
And she be the one you call home

The soft spot on the inside of my thigh
where you place kisses and your beard tickles me
isn’t enough to keep you rooted inside the core of me
that space you know so well which no one else has ever seen
or had the desire to

How I wish your hand
which so easily traces paths of longing across my skin
could so easily intertwine with mine in the public market
and make a proclamation of your love for me

The Fat Bottom Bard

Recently I decided to shake some shit up. No, not a martini. My blogging. But now I’m really thirsty for some reason.

I was getting very frustrated about my blogging stats. I’m not a stat whore or anything, but my views have really dropped. Like dropped down to where they were when I first started blogging. Like low. Like practically non-existent.

So I talked to My Man about it. My Man is a blogger too, has some pretty impressive stats, and I’m not just talking about in his pants. Seriously, he’s working on being uber famous and some day we’re going to have a beach house and a maid and a huge bathtub because of it.

The conversation went a little something like this:

FBG: My stats suck. Like not suck in a good way (blow job reference), but in a bad way.

MM: Sweet Cheeks, don’t take this the wrong way, but honestly, your blog is a clusterfuck. You’ve got shit about blow jobs and sex toys and funny shit mixed in with sappy shit. I think it just confuses the shit out of people.

FBG: But Stud Muffin, I’m confusing as shit. It’s an accurate representation of me.

MM: That’s for damn sure my Cock Sucking Angel, but unlike me, most people don’t want their minds blown by your eclecticness on a regular basis. Your funny shit is funny, and your sappy shit is good, but it just doesn’t work all in one place.

FBG: My Amazing Meat Pony, I think you’re right. I hate to admit it, because you’re right about a lot of things, but I really think you’re right about my clusterfuck blog.

Okay, so maybe the conversation didn’t go EXACTLY like that, but you get the drift right?

The result of that, after some contemplation and heel dragging, is The Fat Bottom Bard. No longer shall my Fat Bottom Girl followers have to suffer from me waxing poetic when they only come here looking for a good dick story!

And no longer will those who might enjoy only my poetry and prose have to suffer my filthy sailor mouth. Well shit, no promises on that actually, because I know some of my poetry will have a lot of fucking cussing in it.

Either way, follow one, follow both, follow none. I must follow my muse wherever he takes me, and usually it’s straight into the dregs of hell, so buckle up boys and girls, it’s always a bumpy ride when a Fat Bottom Girl is driving.

Can’t You Smell That Smell?

And the shortest distance between two points

is as the crow flies

so I wait for wings to form

make me a bird and let me fly

far, far away

but no amount of pleading with a non-existent god or goddess

can make it happen

so I’m leaving on a jet plane

to get a rocky mountain high, the rocky mountain way

I couldn’t get much higher

if I was huffing the scent of your excellence

while standing 40 feet in the air with you

Birthday Presents from the Heart

I think I was 8. The age doesn’t matter.

I ran downstairs, excited at the prospect of my birthday present.

My mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, smoking a Marlboro Light. She looked up and saw my grin and excitedly told me Happy Birthday!!

My gift was laying on the table and she told me to open it. I knew it was clothes just by the feel.

I ripped the paper off and unfolded a dream!

They were perfect!! Light blue, brushed denim bell bottoms with embroidered butterflies. They took my breath away. Every last stitch made with love by my mother.

It’s one of my best birthday present memories ever.

And now I have another best birthday present memory to add to it.

It also took my breath away.

My Man wrote me a poem. It’s not his normal style of writing, but he ventured there for me.

It was beautiful, constructed of his feelings in meter, and it made me cry. My Man said it wasn’t supposed to make me cry.

But they were happy tears. They were tears that said My Man knows my heart, and he speaks to my soul.

I think I was almost 45. The age doesn’t matter.

Commitment Issues

I can’t commit.

No, this has absolutely nothing to do with my new relationship. That’s going quite well, thanks for asking.

This has to do with my blog. I can’t make a commitment to my blog.

I want to be a fantastically popular big hair rock star in spandex pants kind of blogger, but I don’t think I have the dedication.

Don’t get me wrong, I like to write. No, scratch that, I love to write, but only when the feeling hits me.

Problem is, my muse is like a no-good down on his luck drunk douche bag, who thinks the world owes him a living, so he does the bare minimum hoping to get by with the maximum. Some days he doesn’t show up at all. Other days he shows up so freakin’ wasted on cheap bourbon, with so many ideas, I couldn’t possibly write them all down, or ever hope to create an actual piece out of them.

I get mad at my muse for being a slacker, but mostly I’m mad at my muse because it’s like he’s rubbing off on me. I don’t know that I actually possess the desire to be great at this anymore, when I’ve spent so much time being nominal.

Maybe I started the blog for all the wrong reasons. Maybe I should’ve stuck to a certain type of post, and not hopped all over my wacked out mind and just posted whatever happened to spill out onto the paper that day–poetry, idiot ramblings, humorous anecdotes; all of it usually laced with profanity.

Followers hovering at near the 200 mark for almost a full year; so close but yet so far. Tagging the shit out of stuff to try to get more hits. None of it working it seems to bring me that fame I desire.

So I’ve decided to do something drastic. Read on.

Dear Blog,

Maybe it isn’t meant to be, and we should just break up. I have issues. Truth is I whore around, and spend more time adoring blogs other than you, because I like them better. Good relationships require time and attention, and I guess I’m just not really feeling it for you.

However, I do have a proposition for you Blog. We can be friends with benefits! I’ll come back every once in awhile to fuck around with you, and have a couple of beers, and write a few lines, then go about my business. How does that sound? Good? Okay, well then we’ve got a deal.

See you around.

—FBG

 

C&H

Travel Plans

I think it
but there’s really no point in asking the question
as I am well aware of the answer

(Where have you been all my life?)

Walking your road
and I
walking mine

I don’t know of all your travels
or what all your stops and detours have been along the way

I only know my own road –

sometimes long
so long and painful that many days I wanted
to rush to the end
and be done with the journey prematurely

sometimes broad
so broad and entrancing that I could gawk and explore
without fear of running into anything
or anyone and being stopped dead in my tracks

sometimes meandering
so meandering and foreign that I could never guess
who or what might be around the bend
or the treasures I might find

sometimes steep
so steep and narrow that I feared falling
off the precipice and careening to
the bottom where only blackness and longing dwelled

sometimes generous
so generous and heaped with blessings
of love and laughter
that I could barely catch my breath to offer thanks to the universe

sometimes rocky
so rocky and rutted that I tripped
and fell so many times my knees and soul left
scraped and scarred doubting the wounds would ever heal

sometimes lonely
so lonely and desolate that there was only silence
and no one there to try to stop the flow of tears
or hold me when my sadness became unbearable

But travel we must
converging with others roads when the time is right
and yours has converged with mine
on what would seem a serendipitous pathway
or possibly a collision at a crossroads

We each have reached out to the other
hands
fingers
tendrils of souls
intertwining and trusting

How long we will stroll this merged, but imperfect thoroughfare
remains to be seen
I only know the ground seems steadier
with you beside me

A Steady Diet of Truth

honesty
tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth
don’t leave any parts out
life is messy
as long as I don’t have to clean up for you
open it up
let it spill
spew forth from your reality
tell all, like one of those trash mags at the checkout stand of the local grocery store
I can handle the truth
even if you can’t
I can envelop your unfettered banter
and inhale it into my soul
like an unfiltered Lucky Strike
though it may be poison
your truth tastes so good

**Once again. . . this shit is mine. . .these words might not be much, but they’re all I have. . .copyrights and some such shit. . .

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