Goddess above me!
Snake of the slime
Alostrael, love me!
Our master, the devil
Prospers the revel.
Tread with your foot
My heart til it hurt!
Tread on it, put
The smear of your dirt
On my love, on my shame
Scribble your name!
Straddle your Beast
My Masterful Bitch
With the thighs of you greased
With the Sweat of your Itch!
Spit on me, scarlet
Mouth of my harlot!
Now from your wide
Raw cunt, the abyss,
Spend spouting the tide
Of your sizzling piss
In my mouth; oh my Whore
Let it pour, let it pour!

You stale like a mare
And fart as you stale;
Through straggled wet hair
You spout like a whale.
Splash the manure
And piss from the sewer.
Down to me quick
With your tooth on my lip
And your hand on my prick
With feverish grip
My life as it drinks—
How your breath stinks!

Your hand, oh unclean
Your hand that has wasted
Your love, in obscene
Black masses, that tasted
Your soul, it’s your hand!
Feel my prick stand!

Your life times from lewd
Little girl, to mature
Worn whore that has chewed
Your own pile of manure.
Your hand was the key to—
And now your frig me, too!

Rub all the much
Of your cunt on me, Leah
Cunt, let me suck
All your glued gonorrhea!
Cunt without end!
Amen! til you spend!

Cunt! you have harboured
All dirt and disease
In your slimy unbarbered
Loose hole, with its cheese
And its monthlies, and pox
You chewer of cocks!
Cunt, you have sucked
Up pricks, you squirted
Out foetuses, fucked
Til bastards you blurted
Out into space—
Spend on my face!

Rub all your gleet away!
Envenom the arrow.
May your pox eat away
Me to the marrow.
Cunt you have got me;
I love you to rot me!

Spend again, lash me!
Leah, one spasm
Scream to splash me.
Slime of the chasm
Choke me with spilth
Of your sow-belly’s filth.

Stab your demonic
Smile to my brain!
Soak me in cognac
Cunt and cocaine;
Sprawl on me! Sit
On my mouth, Leah, shit!

Shit on me, slut!
Creamy the curds
That drip from your gut!
Greasy the turds!
Dribble your dung
On the tip of my tongue!

Churn on me, Leah!
Twist on your thighs!
Smear diarrhoea
Into my eyes!
Splutter out shit
From the bottomless pit.

Turn to me, chew it
With me, Leah, whore!
Vomit it, spew it
And lick it once more.
We can make lust
Drunk on Disgust.

Splay out your gut,
Your ass hole, my lover!
You buggering slut,
I know where to shove her!
There she goes, plumb
Up the foul Bitch’s bum!

Sackful of skin
And bone, as I speak
I’ll bugger your grin
Into a shriek.
Bugger you, slut
Bugger your gut!

Wriggle, you hog!
Wrench at the pin!
Wrench at it, drag
It half out, suck it in!
Scream, you hog dirt, you!
I want it to hurt you!

Beast-Lioness, squirt
From your Cocksucker’s hole!
Belch out the dirt
From your Syphillis soul.
Splutter foul words
Through your supper of turds!

May the Devil our lord, your
Soul scribble over
With sayings of ordure!
Call me your lover!
Slave of the gut
Of the arse of a slut!

Call me your sewer
Of spilth and snot
Your fart-sniffer, chewer
Of the shit in your slot.
Call me that as you rave
In the rape of your slave.

Fuck! Shit! Let me come
Alostrael—Fuck!
I’ve spent in your bum.
Shit! Give me the muck
From my whore’s arse, slick
Dirt of my prick!

Eat it, you sow!
I’m your dog, fuck, shit!
Swallow it now!
Rest for a bit!
Satan, you gave
A crown to a slave.

I am your fate, on
Your belly, above you.
I swear it by Satan
Leah, I love you.
I’m going insane
Do it again!

Need educated guesses on this, as I am not the real author of this poem, and that I am glad. The man who wrote this poem was Aleister Crowley, if anybody knows anything about him from reading his books, I would like to know your true opinion. I think this is true,perhps the extent of Crowley's deprave behavior is somewhat caught in this poem he wrote for one of his disciples.
eF Mar 26

The words just don't flow.
Like pieces to a
puzzle,
With no where to go.

Ive been blah lately.
I have no motivation to write.
Feel like I've lost my spark.
Feel like nothing flows anymore.
The words rhyme.
But have no purpose.
I feel the same.

Trying to keep this outlet alive..
spaceghost Mar 21

I walk with you
with only the streetlights
as our chaperones.
My pace slows down,
trying to stretch this
10-minute walk
for 10 minutes more.

Your voice is steady,
but I hear how it cracks
like the ripples on a lake.
I pray to the stars
that the tears in your eyes
are from the smog.

We walk on the side of the street,
arguing over who gets to guard the other
because we know we'll both
walk to the middle of the road
at one point or another.
I win
and push you closer to the side,
feeling your hand in mine.

We reach the gate.
I make you promise
that you won't talk to strangers,
that you won't walk by yourself.
Our pinkies link,
and I feel five years old.

You go home.
I pray once more
for more time by your side,
but you have already crossed the road.
I change my prayer for patience
until I can make you mine.

// happy poetry day!! sorry for the lack of content. i lost my muse for a long, long time.
MindsPalace Mar 13

It wasn't that bad, that trip to the ER,
And my sickness didn't leave a physical scar,
But I must admit I got carried away
While making that soup one fine winter day.
See, my friend went and dared me to make the stuff,
And to this day it could've been a bluff,
But when I am dared, it's a serious matter,
So I started to whip up a little bit of batter.
Right into the fridge, my hands were busy,
Making that soup really got me dizzy.
A fish head, salsa, old dried beans,
Mustard, spinach, and coffee creams.
That glop must have boiled for hours and hours,
And that kitchen, I swear, it needed a shower.
At any rate, I don't yet feel regret,
But I'll tell you right now, the key word is yet,
Because I still have a big medical issue,
And on top of that, no social life, too,
But the occasional heart attack won't make me droop,
Because I loved making and eating that soup.

Esther Mar 12

Dearly departed,
Pray for me
In life I still need to excrete
Not only faeces but thoughts
Just like food in my mouth
I chew possible sounds
Until they are… reproduced
I think
What I thought was art
Is now a bit bitter on my tongue
The saliva must be tainted
With odours I’ve inhaled
Because this rubbish I taste
Is too flavoursome
I know this isn’t appealing
But neither is the finished product
Unwrap what you can
Of what we toss down to you
And swallow what you think is sweetest
You know it will all be… sour
I think
What I thought was lasting flavour
Turned out to be flesh
And even as I write this
I feel the unpicked hair in my teeth
So that when I create
I am secretly painting in words
From the inside out
I am closer to you in this way
But in that way-
Not so much.

Dearly departed,
Pray for us
In life we must run to you
But in living we must wait
Amongst the rotting peels
We left in our backpacks
For too long
We’ve learned to speak
About the smell
But in doing so our breaths
Stink up the air
And our legs are getting stiff
Sitting cross legged and festering thoughts
Bubbling images we wanted
To forget
God, this is a witch’s pot
But she forgets to stir it on hot days
And we decay
Faster than you do, I swear
The curses don’t become me
I know, the curses
Must be me and them.

Dearly, Departed,
Pray, and still listening
I’m sorry about the foulness of everything.

Dead Lock Feb 20

Stink bugs sit on the toilet seat

Their fat bodies hide in the shadow cast by a bar of soap

Thumping against the mirror, the light bulb

Hiding in cabinets

Waiting for me, dead on counters

Floating bloated.
Life aborted.
Rotting sockets.
A bobbing lifeless buoy.
where the river meets
the sewage.

Maddie Berry Jan 31

To the man with the comb-over,
I resent you.
For the way you talk about women,
Speaking of us like property,
For taking away our choice,
Of if we want to conceive.

To the man with the loud mouth,
I ignore you.
For shooting down people’s words,
Putting a lock on their mouth,
And interrupting them with your nasally
“Wrong”.

To the man with the twisted morals,
I abhor you.
For the families pushed out of the country,
By the wall in your heart
And the one you want for your country.

To the man with all of the power,
I fear you.
For the lies you tell,
You reek of deceit.
For how you make war,
Or peace, if that’s what you want to call it.

oui Nov 2016

Roanoke is like webbed toes; really weird but in a way that makes you wanna cough or throw up if you look too close

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