This poem is an anthem to the inner warrior. Solomon, the Joker, the mountain rebels, and the Moon merge into one figure — a hero unafraid to be himself. His armor is his own style; his weapon, wit and will. He doesn’t ask for approval — he asserts presence. Individuality isn’t a mask. It’s armor. And you don’t take it off.

This poem is like port wine under the skin: warm, chaotic, defiantly alive. It doesn’t pretend to be refined — and that’s exactly its power. Feeling, lust, sentimentality, and rebellion all fit in the same dresser drawer. Being yourself sometimes means not holding back an “ah-****-yeah” when everything really is that good.

This poem doesn’t pretend. It speaks the language of chaos, lust, and absurd celebration — raw, unfiltered, and alive. Emotional honesty here means embracing the wildness of being human: to laugh, to rage, to toast, to ****, to fall — and to own it all without shame.

This poem is a hymn to bold, unapologetic femininity. The Baroness is no object of desire — she’s a figure of power and taste. She reclaims male roles, redistributes control and capital. Ironic, glamorous, dangerous — she writes her own rules.

This poem is a rhythmic ode to ****** boldness. Here, the body isn’t an object — it’s a tool of action, a stage, a force, and a source of humor. There is no shame — only tempo, aggression, thrill, and pleasure. It’s the right to feel and express oneself, even through grotesque, even through excess. Because the body, too, is a subject.

This poem is about the freedom to play with meanings, images, and the body beyond gender norms. There are no “proper” bodies, no “normative” genders here — only a space where blackberry and Eurydice can share the same frame, and a cake can become a medium for dialogue rather than an object. All genders are needed, all genders matter. Western culture thrives in ambiguity — and that is its strength.

This poem is a sharp parody of aestheticized bourgeois taste and the hypocrisy of the fashion scene. The author uses grotesque imagery and hyperbole to expose a system where femininity is not a subject but a commodity. It’s poetry of anger, stylish satire, and anti-snobbery — where wordplay becomes a form of resistance. Not devaluation, but unmasking.