you were a wild child
with a wet sticky ****
you played with it often
on a pillow you'd grunt
then mama betrayed
licentious you
with ruinous morals
don't play with your goo
girls keep their legs crossed
and don't talk to boys
*** is for grown ups
and ***** aren't toys
your hardened your heart
kept your *** in a box
to be a good girl
grew cold like a pox
emergent depression
sadness and cold
you had to say no
though the boys where so bold
soon there was rage
for no reason at all
your hair turned to snakes
cause boys wouldn't call
gorgons are demons
that turn men to stone
from endless denial
here comes the crone
then comes the fetish
she aches to be dead
she poofs out her ***
begs, please take my head
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist you would see me telling a story not judge me although i admit to my paraphilias
These poems are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about