Oct 2017
it happens all the time, that feeling of reading a saturday newspaper supplement; had i mentioned that i find the journalistic medium of writing, the most obnoxious? the most tiresome, the most wearisome, the most, how should i say: *******? i don't which i detest more, the politicians, or the journalists... i never seem to ever pick the "right" choice... it's the politicians with their lies, but it's also the journalists with their social-media "attention" to detail that bugs me... who are these people, who are they?
and it only comes in the shape of an article
you're never too old. or are you?
who are these cardinals, bishops and monks
of the "writing" class fooling?
i ****** well hope there's an inquisition
coming...
i'm just tired of a culture that only celebrates
but *one form of torture / execution...
crosses have become so unimaginative that
they had to become necklaces...
yawn...
but these (cliche) bourgeoise opinions
are worse than torture...
women: bare legs, provocative dancing,
zara, bouncy hair, selfies, macron age-gap bf,
getting drunk, hats (ascot esp.),
sheepskin car coats,
slogan t-shirts;
men: hassling d.j.s, messy hair,
trainers,
earrings,
earphones, live gigs, the "mate",
flirting, visible *******...
who, are, these, people?
i don't begin to think that a rebellion against
the bourgeoisie came from this sort
of laziness, this sort of "attention to detail",
but then again, hyacinth bucket could
annoy anyone with a stern armour of metal...
who are these people?
i've just been watching clouds at night
with the hazel coated sheen of the moon
scuttering the intruding mountains of
quicksilver sheen cauliflower...
listening to some trafficking moral debate
while in amsterdam everyone partied...
and thinking: you know, i might have seen
my psychiatrist for free, a world renowned
(can't remember her name) -
but i found that seeing a ******* to be
much more effective...
slave? was she a slave to me?
frankly, more like a psychiatrist...
after all, i'm no quasimodo in posture...
and yet the biggest idiot in our company would
get a ****, and i: supposedly the type
that got off on conversation...
seems i was never dumb enough for a casual
****** encounter...
pity? what pity, what self-wallowing
could i ever be up to? it's the perfectly sighted
comic affair...
it's no conspiracy that the feminists
have become so undesirable they imported
a load of north african ****...
what?!
that's not the case, who else would ****
'em if not the ***** replacement machines
of nigra flesh? someone has to,
overwise everyone goes ballistic!
i already have to ladies by my side,
ms. amber, a scotch fiery red head,
and sophia, a dark maiden from rhodes,
with curly hair...
and it's not so much what they
do with my nether regions, as what they do
with my ego... that other phallus...
it always aims at a north korean
army march... prompt, intact,
with nicely ironed shirts, trousers and
other aspects of the uniform...
then again, it was never a case of limp
when drunk and with the transcendental
experience passing the madonna-***** complex
with a *******...
always that glorified one-dimensional
experience of corpus (ad) dare corpus...
i have no qualms, no inhibitions,
you'd be surprised at the notion of un-inhibiting
certain receptors of quickened gratification,
walking into a room with about 12 of them,
staring at you like they might just circumcise you
with their lips, and eat your liver while
selling your kidneys on the blackmarket...
and yes, i like my latin,
but latin as the cliche reminds us: is not dead...
latin is not dead, it's simply derived from
the vulgate,
lingua latina est vivus, in plebei, ergo
est non mort; and that's the usual ****-it you
apply to reviving the origins of:
still writing in a latin alphabet!
if latin was dead, i'd be writing in runic!
dead my ***... ever seen a baboon with
haemorrhoids try to sit still?
had about four ****-cheeks on him,
****** decided to hang upside-down from
a tree... and no, two weeks in kenya were not great,
i don't know how those whiteys did it,
i spent most of the time in a shade,
4 hours in an air conditioned room,
3 hours prior to falling asleep on the balcony,
and probably drank my bodyweight of liquids...
so yes, i have a "moral" conundrum regarding
prostitution, esp. after visiting amsterdam...
**** me, beats sessions with a psychiatrist...
my mental illness? christianity,
and how i found it hard to mantra mea culpa
+ quia propitius ero iniquitatibus eorum et
peccatorum illorum iam non memorabo...
which is a staggering combination
of... "symptoms".
and it only comes in the shape of an article
you're never too old. or are you?
who are these cardinals, bishops and monks
of the "writing" class fooling?
i ****** well hope there's an inquisition
coming...
i'm just tired of a culture that only celebrates
but *one form of torture / execution...
crosses have become so unimaginative that
they had to become necklaces...
yawn...
but these (cliche) bourgeoise opinions
are worse than torture...
women: bare legs, provocative dancing,
zara, bouncy hair, selfies, macron age-gap bf,
getting drunk, hats (ascot esp.),
sheepskin car coats,
slogan t-shirts;
men: hassling d.j.s, messy hair,
trainers,
earrings,
earphones, live gigs, the "mate",
flirting, visible *******...
who, are, these, people?
i don't begin to think that a rebellion against
the bourgeoisie came from this sort
of laziness, this sort of "attention to detail",
but then again, hyacinth bucket could
annoy anyone with a stern armour of metal...
who are these people?
i've just been watching clouds at night
with the hazel coated sheen of the moon
scuttering the intruding mountains of
quicksilver sheen cauliflower...
listening to some trafficking moral debate
while in amsterdam everyone partied...
and thinking: you know, i might have seen
my psychiatrist for free, a world renowned
(can't remember her name) -
but i found that seeing a ******* to be
much more effective...
slave? was she a slave to me?
frankly, more like a psychiatrist...
after all, i'm no quasimodo in posture...
and yet the biggest idiot in our company would
get a ****, and i: supposedly the type
that got off on conversation...
seems i was never dumb enough for a casual
****** encounter...
pity? what pity, what self-wallowing
could i ever be up to? it's the perfectly sighted
comic affair...
it's no conspiracy that the feminists
have become so undesirable they imported
a load of north african ****...
what?!
that's not the case, who else would ****
'em if not the ***** replacement machines
of nigra flesh? someone has to,
overwise everyone goes ballistic!
i already have to ladies by my side,
ms. amber, a scotch fiery red head,
and sophia, a dark maiden from rhodes,
with curly hair...
and it's not so much what they
do with my nether regions, as what they do
with my ego... that other phallus...
it always aims at a north korean
army march... prompt, intact,
with nicely ironed shirts, trousers and
other aspects of the uniform...
then again, it was never a case of limp
when drunk and with the transcendental
experience passing the madonna-***** complex
with a *******...
always that glorified one-dimensional
experience of corpus (ad) dare corpus...
i have no qualms, no inhibitions,
you'd be surprised at the notion of un-inhibiting
certain receptors of quickened gratification,
walking into a room with about 12 of them,
staring at you like they might just circumcise you
with their lips, and eat your liver while
selling your kidneys on the blackmarket...
and yes, i like my latin,
but latin as the cliche reminds us: is not dead...
latin is not dead, it's simply derived from
the vulgate,
lingua latina est vivus, in plebei, ergo
est non mort; and that's the usual ****-it you
apply to reviving the origins of:
still writing in a latin alphabet!
if latin was dead, i'd be writing in runic!
dead my ***... ever seen a baboon with
haemorrhoids try to sit still?
had about four ****-cheeks on him,
****** decided to hang upside-down from
a tree... and no, two weeks in kenya were not great,
i don't know how those whiteys did it,
i spent most of the time in a shade,
4 hours in an air conditioned room,
3 hours prior to falling asleep on the balcony,
and probably drank my bodyweight of liquids...
so yes, i have a "moral" conundrum regarding
prostitution, esp. after visiting amsterdam...
**** me, beats sessions with a psychiatrist...
my mental illness? christianity,
and how i found it hard to mantra mea culpa
+ quia propitius ero iniquitatibus eorum et
peccatorum illorum iam non memorabo...
which is a staggering combination
of... "symptoms".
