"foetuses" poems - Hello Poetry

When did news parody stop being funny? Was it somewhere between Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in and Donald Trump’s hair? Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London, or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations (bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)? When did the news start doing Chris Morris’ job for him? When did they start pre-satirising the headlines? “No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government. Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for ********** Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina. I swear, I didn’t make any of those up. The actors on Saturday Night Live are more statesmanlike than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning. How the hell do they breed these creatures? These gurning, overgrown foetuses with their conveniently dead ****** sisters to get all wet-eyed and tumescent over, their boomingly hollow controversy and their total, catastrophic crashes of personality. These loathsome organic constructs who would seem more relatable and trustworthy if their image consultants made them wear Nixon masks for every public appearance. When did it all become this strange, sick spoof of itself? Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich? Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats. Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it. Okay. I made the last one up.

0

Feb 14, 2016

Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC

nico-reznick

Those are the headlines. God, I wish they weren't.

When did news parody stop being funny? Was it somewhere between Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in and Donald Trump’s hair? Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London, or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations (bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)? When did the news start doing Chris Morris’ job for him? When did they start pre-satirising the headlines? “No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government. Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for ********** Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina. I swear, I didn’t make any of those up. The actors on Saturday Night Live are more statesmanlike than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning. How the hell do they breed these creatures? These gurning, overgrown foetuses with their conveniently dead ****** sisters to get all wet-eyed and tumescent over, their boomingly hollow controversy and their total, catastrophic crashes of personality. These loathsome organic constructs who would seem more relatable and trustworthy if their image consultants made them wear Nixon masks for every public appearance. When did it all become this strange, sick spoof of itself? Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich? Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats. Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it. Okay. I made the last one up.

42

They say it scars you for life! They say it consumes your soul! They say you never get over it! They say a lot of things … Am I so different? Or maybe? I’m just Indifferent! *Who knows? I don’t know I really don’t know* I often peek inside the rusty old bucket of dead babies that I keep in the loft And? I feel nothing Not a **** thing Feeble Formed Foetuses *Swirling around and around and around and around and around and around* Why is it that I have no pain? Why do I not crave my dead babies? I couldn’t even tell you when they fell out When they made a run for it When they thought **** this …. I’m out of this ***** Does that make me a bad person? Would it be more acceptable if I was distraught and inconsolable? Then you could all pat me on the back and collect my tears Well …. Heres the news … “There’s NO ******* tears here, baby!” So you all can take your sanctimonious ******** and shove it straight up your sympathetic compassionate arses In fact I’ll even lay a wager that if this was YOU YOU would run through Imaginary birthdays Imaginary names Conceptions Etc "Sshhhh ….. Don’t mention babies in front of her" She is so fragile Full of so much love A tiny delicate little flower Full of so much love MILK IT ***** COS TONIGHT I’LL BE HOWLING AT THE MOON SURROUNDED BY DANCING DEAD BABIES

0

Nov 4, 2010

Nov 4, 2010 at 7:42 AM UTC

bathsheba

Dancing Dead Babies

They say it scars you for life! They say it consumes your soul! They say you never get over it! They say a lot of things … Am I so different? Or maybe? I’m just Indifferent! *Who knows? I don’t know I really don’t know* I often peek inside the rusty old bucket of dead babies that I keep in the loft And? I feel nothing Not a **** thing Feeble Formed Foetuses *Swirling around and around and around and around and around and around* Why is it that I have no pain? Why do I not crave my dead babies? I couldn’t even tell you when they fell out When they made a run for it When they thought **** this …. I’m out of this ***** Does that make me a bad person? Would it be more acceptable if I was distraught and inconsolable? Then you could all pat me on the back and collect my tears Well …. Heres the news … “There’s NO ******* tears here, baby!” So you all can take your sanctimonious ******** and shove it straight up your sympathetic compassionate arses In fact I’ll even lay a wager that if this was YOU YOU would run through Imaginary birthdays Imaginary names Conceptions Etc "Sshhhh ….. Don’t mention babies in front of her" She is so fragile Full of so much love A tiny delicate little flower Full of so much love MILK IT ***** COS TONIGHT I’LL BE HOWLING AT THE MOON SURROUNDED BY DANCING DEAD BABIES

52

You came too soon, the four of you, into this world. Your mother, recognising the feeling, did what she had to do to give birth to you, cleaned you, disposed of the afterbirth in nature's economical way. But you had no experience, no knowledge of how to be kittens. Almost still foetuses, furless, unmoving, cold, you did not stimulate her maternal instinct. She did not recognise you as her babies. Lying against her belly, you did not know how to suckle, and she, not ready to feed you, walked off. You had no future. A bucket of water, I thought, would speed your departure from the life you had barely started. But you, recognising the element you had so lately left, were at home in it, swam untroubled under the surface like tiny, pink sea creatures. Unwilling to watch longer, I gave you a quicker end. Your mother, unlike me, resumed her life as if nothing had changed.

0

Jan 2, 2017

Jan 2, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC

paul-hansford

Drowning Kittens

You came too soon, the four of you, into this world. Your mother, recognising the feeling, did what she had to do to give birth to you, cleaned you, disposed of the afterbirth in nature's economical way. But you had no experience, no knowledge of how to be kittens. Almost still foetuses, furless, unmoving, cold, you did not stimulate her maternal instinct. She did not recognise you as her babies. Lying against her belly, you did not know how to suckle, and she, not ready to feed you, walked off. You had no future. A bucket of water, I thought, would speed your departure from the life you had barely started. But you, recognising the element you had so lately left, were at home in it, swam untroubled under the surface like tiny, pink sea creatures. Unwilling to watch longer, I gave you a quicker end. Your mother, unlike me, resumed her life as if nothing had changed.

33

we are all falling and eating our eggs so blindly we eat them we chew up our teeth like a mouthful of chairs like a gathering of bears like a discordant tea party we lap on our legs we love all our swines we swallow our foetuses we plant pretty flowers and consume each other’s mouths like we’re trying to really taste our mouths are so dry we saliva each other our insides are outsides we are all sea creatures we are all so wet and bubbly we are so blatantly in love like drawers full of teeth like hands full of piano keys like carpets soaked in birth fluid we all are so slippery we’re blinding our faces we’re deafening our toes we’re eating our eggs and we’re falling

0

Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 6:50 AM UTC

anastasia-webb

Little People

we are all falling and eating our eggs so blindly we eat them we chew up our teeth like a mouthful of chairs like a gathering of bears like a discordant tea party we lap on our legs we love all our swines we swallow our foetuses we plant pretty flowers and consume each other’s mouths like we’re trying to really taste our mouths are so dry we saliva each other our insides are outsides we are all sea creatures we are all so wet and bubbly we are so blatantly in love like drawers full of teeth like hands full of piano keys like carpets soaked in birth fluid we all are so slippery we’re blinding our faces we’re deafening our toes we’re eating our eggs and we’re falling

27

*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.* i found the investments of psychology all too unfathomably capricious, where the ratio of theory to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution: in that when one theory fails another two emerge, and so on and so forth, in that great existential ****** of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel of freud glees with anticipation to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic life to enter the great **** eye that cannot peer into itself and consider both being and nothingness, as the great ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus nimble footed and thumbs on the ready in the grand coliseum of life - just a great fishing net where once the mighty fisherman st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water of these paradoxical amphibian representations; psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted for, the way in which thinking becomes what thinking always was: a malignant capricious medium pulverised by five vectors, and the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the selfish... dragged down to the molecular degeneracy of explanation using genes, but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos. indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing and not the study of thinking: imagine what a hot snarling and wet breath raising a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines and african voodoo masks... sends him running... the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words, the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking, pure vocalisation of emotion... no, i think less and less of psychology... i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια: the study of caprices, the study of whims - e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders a big mac in the following way: - yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.

0

Feb 26, 2016

Feb 26, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

καπριτσιολογια (kapritsiologia)

*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.* i found the investments of psychology all too unfathomably capricious, where the ratio of theory to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution: in that when one theory fails another two emerge, and so on and so forth, in that great existential ****** of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel of freud glees with anticipation to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic life to enter the great **** eye that cannot peer into itself and consider both being and nothingness, as the great ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus nimble footed and thumbs on the ready in the grand coliseum of life - just a great fishing net where once the mighty fisherman st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water of these paradoxical amphibian representations; psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted for, the way in which thinking becomes what thinking always was: a malignant capricious medium pulverised by five vectors, and the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the selfish... dragged down to the molecular degeneracy of explanation using genes, but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos. indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing and not the study of thinking: imagine what a hot snarling and wet breath raising a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines and african voodoo masks... sends him running... the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words, the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking, pure vocalisation of emotion... no, i think less and less of psychology... i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια: the study of caprices, the study of whims - e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders a big mac in the following way: - yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.

47

i’m not here to pay my taxes blah! octopi strings attached into thinking i’d down a bottle of *** without the hawaiian angels! to hell with you!!! she’s the last cause i have of me, but it’s the one that makes billions accounted for in history, dead numbering 70,000 by only one historian's care for facts, that's when history is dyslexic with numbers instead of words, it says: solomon's appetite, the reverse onomatopoeia recorded of hum? mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... ******* waves of virginia ah wooooooo! *um um dumb d’uh 9 oh 6, 5 ah ah index pinky 1 2 3... ******* retards... throw that alsatian off the red brick wall to learn a few mannerisms of broken feet! i’ve had enough! pickle those foetuses in brine for emperor peter the great to intercede! i’ve had enough of the philistine peasants! i’m going coo coo in the artefact of the rolling composers loosing it in the muzak spectacle of the st. petersburg fountain; give me davy jones’ eternity on loop without insect ***** or interactant activity of the interpreted state of affairs, for the dictator to civilise his “insects” and reel in a misery that could never be a puppeteer’s excess shadow of string with the shadows wholly formed into balance of a hand picking up a stone excusing any excess of cobweb to interfere.*

0

Oct 19, 2015

Oct 19, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

hell weaves

i’m not here to pay my taxes blah! octopi strings attached into thinking i’d down a bottle of *** without the hawaiian angels! to hell with you!!! she’s the last cause i have of me, but it’s the one that makes billions accounted for in history, dead numbering 70,000 by only one historian's care for facts, that's when history is dyslexic with numbers instead of words, it says: solomon's appetite, the reverse onomatopoeia recorded of hum? mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... ******* waves of virginia ah wooooooo! *um um dumb d’uh 9 oh 6, 5 ah ah index pinky 1 2 3... ******* retards... throw that alsatian off the red brick wall to learn a few mannerisms of broken feet! i’ve had enough! pickle those foetuses in brine for emperor peter the great to intercede! i’ve had enough of the philistine peasants! i’m going coo coo in the artefact of the rolling composers loosing it in the muzak spectacle of the st. petersburg fountain; give me davy jones’ eternity on loop without insect ***** or interactant activity of the interpreted state of affairs, for the dictator to civilise his “insects” and reel in a misery that could never be a puppeteer’s excess shadow of string with the shadows wholly formed into balance of a hand picking up a stone excusing any excess of cobweb to interfere.*

16

A strawberry red bale that gratitude was dale but her waist ran a bijou a chestful day in May and her thigh was derry with such a motif that was ye trumpet from Sunnyvale tonight where her sweet tooth went ravishingly bare while incredible vibration she'd shareware indeed, a variation hypnotically sound like her chestnut roasting bonfire where tactfully dressed in love attire we happen to know that travel so far with the web now our thoroughfare and dire by dawn fit her ankle again that entail her sprangle though her selfie is the grandeur soon with foetuses In her bottom.

0

May 3, 2017

May 3, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC

poetman

Red Licorice

A strawberry red bale that gratitude was dale but her waist ran a bijou a chestful day in May and her thigh was derry with such a motif that was ye trumpet from Sunnyvale tonight where her sweet tooth went ravishingly bare while incredible vibration she'd shareware indeed, a variation hypnotically sound like her chestnut roasting bonfire where tactfully dressed in love attire we happen to know that travel so far with the web now our thoroughfare and dire by dawn fit her ankle again that entail her sprangle though her selfie is the grandeur soon with foetuses In her bottom.

17

i summon and conquer your dreammind with ghosts of aborted foetuses and we rampage through the corridors of your indoctrinations. knock on the doors and you answer with your deadmind ex nihilo, manifestations of deeper fetishes, like the one where you want to fuckkids and have that power because you have nothing. your life is nothing but a bookend waiting to fall off the shelf. n u drag ur naked body thru the blood n the glory of a fight that still has some losing left in it. u lick away ur bruzes n sleep in catatonia coz ur mind fuckedya. had enough but it was pillory n stocks n u swim on the back of a nightterror. still u drag that useless body thru gravel n rocks n icecold water, washing off the dust n the silt n the beggared belief of the siren call of a dream u had when u was young but now its gone n ur left grasping at the pebble of a memory that was once a mighty boulder but time has weathered m worn its face n peeled away all the best parts until now it is smooth n useless n small, an insignificant little morselpiece of what it once was, and u turn it round in ur hand n bury it in the silt.

0

Jul 21, 2017

Jul 21, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC

michael-j-simpson

silt, ex nihilo

i summon and conquer your dreammind with ghosts of aborted foetuses and we rampage through the corridors of your indoctrinations. knock on the doors and you answer with your deadmind ex nihilo, manifestations of deeper fetishes, like the one where you want to fuckkids and have that power because you have nothing. your life is nothing but a bookend waiting to fall off the shelf. n u drag ur naked body thru the blood n the glory of a fight that still has some losing left in it. u lick away ur bruzes n sleep in catatonia coz ur mind fuckedya. had enough but it was pillory n stocks n u swim on the back of a nightterror. still u drag that useless body thru gravel n rocks n icecold water, washing off the dust n the silt n the beggared belief of the siren call of a dream u had when u was young but now its gone n ur left grasping at the pebble of a memory that was once a mighty boulder but time has weathered m worn its face n peeled away all the best parts until now it is smooth n useless n small, an insignificant little morselpiece of what it once was, and u turn it round in ur hand n bury it in the silt.

13

I woke up. And we were on some mission... Walking fast like dinosaur robots gentle. All made of metal. The autumn red sun shone too strong... We were almost bird-like steeples, foetuses tip-toeing along. I kept trying to stare at your face but I couldn’t. But now I get it... We were meant to be erasing something... Still I Kept trying to turn my head, and it kept on hurting. Finally managed to twist hard enough, this giraffe neck with curtains... Then saw them. Your silver slits twinkling, wriggling like silverfish or were they zig zagging... Trying not to see me... set on the dream engineered *** of gold somewhere on our periphery. I think... How did you turn your head? Did it hurt as much as it did for me... Do you feel as ageing? Then we suddenly look deep into these dolphin-human souls, retracing our maze of complex inclusion... As our senses are heightened, and our bodies implode, joining liquid time segments of something we hold... Our spirals give out– as all broken cycles crash into a new spate rising spout.

0

Aug 20, 2025

Aug 20, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC

SeismicNought

Collide Church

I woke up. And we were on some mission... Walking fast like dinosaur robots gentle. All made of metal. The autumn red sun shone too strong... We were almost bird-like steeples, foetuses tip-toeing along. I kept trying to stare at your face but I couldn’t. But now I get it... We were meant to be erasing something... Still I Kept trying to turn my head, and it kept on hurting. Finally managed to twist hard enough, this giraffe neck with curtains... Then saw them. Your silver slits twinkling, wriggling like silverfish or were they zig zagging... Trying not to see me... set on the dream engineered *** of gold somewhere on our periphery. I think... How did you turn your head? Did it hurt as much as it did for me... Do you feel as ageing? Then we suddenly look deep into these dolphin-human souls, retracing our maze of complex inclusion... As our senses are heightened, and our bodies implode, joining liquid time segments of something we hold... Our spirals give out– as all broken cycles crash into a new spate rising spout.

12

Am not writing to whom it may concern But to the poets whose silence i want to discern You are the prophets of the Word And if you mute you earn our world no profit Am worried you have gone hiding And abandoned your call of writing You have denied your pens the justice And you have played mute in many instances Where is your voice? Your fingers have slept And you haven't poured your heavy soul unto the paper Why are you not talking about the evil that has cast a blanket over earth dwellers? Don't you feel this tangible darkness that has enveloped our planet? Where has your voice been when fathers have been sleeping with daughters Or it no longer matters For mothers to lie with their sons? Why have you spared your ink And just watch as kids stop taking milk and water and fight over beer None of you has been bold enough to write about that man who betrayed his nation for a piece of gold Have you forsaken your mission? Your silence is too loud Are you dumb of the warning sirens And like the ostrich,you have buried your head to the soil with pride I wanna know why you have played dumb:why thee borrowed your ears to the waters and non of this you hear And our women throw their foetuses away like a man doing open excreta Arise oh writers arise and wipe away this coming darkness with the light from your papers for when the good are silence its evil done enough I wonder why writing pads are clean Yet men have stop desiring man and are siring thoughts to woo men Why have you not quoted the scripture to condemn this abomination? "Behold woe unto to man who lies with another man" Are there no writers to pull of this dark shirt of evil we have donned? Am not playing saint by asking these questions But my conscious is burdened I need to offload this nagging from my shoulders Only you poets who can set my mind free So arise African writers Let your pens bleed the truth Two wrong never make a right But what you write can rectify all wrongs For prosperity will never forgive a man who goes to sleep during the day while goats eat his barn of yams

0

Feb 23, 2016

Feb 23, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC

kelvin-mungai

ARISE POETS

Am not writing to whom it may concern But to the poets whose silence i want to discern You are the prophets of the Word And if you mute you earn our world no profit Am worried you have gone hiding And abandoned your call of writing You have denied your pens the justice And you have played mute in many instances Where is your voice? Your fingers have slept And you haven't poured your heavy soul unto the paper Why are you not talking about the evil that has cast a blanket over earth dwellers? Don't you feel this tangible darkness that has enveloped our planet? Where has your voice been when fathers have been sleeping with daughters Or it no longer matters For mothers to lie with their sons? Why have you spared your ink And just watch as kids stop taking milk and water and fight over beer None of you has been bold enough to write about that man who betrayed his nation for a piece of gold Have you forsaken your mission? Your silence is too loud Are you dumb of the warning sirens And like the ostrich,you have buried your head to the soil with pride I wanna know why you have played dumb:why thee borrowed your ears to the waters and non of this you hear And our women throw their foetuses away like a man doing open excreta Arise oh writers arise and wipe away this coming darkness with the light from your papers for when the good are silence its evil done enough I wonder why writing pads are clean Yet men have stop desiring man and are siring thoughts to woo men Why have you not quoted the scripture to condemn this abomination? "Behold woe unto to man who lies with another man" Are there no writers to pull of this dark shirt of evil we have donned? Am not playing saint by asking these questions But my conscious is burdened I need to offload this nagging from my shoulders Only you poets who can set my mind free So arise African writers Let your pens bleed the truth Two wrong never make a right But what you write can rectify all wrongs For prosperity will never forgive a man who goes to sleep during the day while goats eat his barn of yams

41

if you asked me, i'd tell you that i started reading the master & margarita in st. petersburg... then in the warsaw airport... and that i liked tsar peter's pickled foetuses... but that i found the hermitage a bit leopard-print leotard tacky, i mean a little bit **** nah i mean really really **** ha ha, i mean it was like a carboot sale in essex of a gallery: classics just jumbled up, a junk shop in the least; homelesssness of paintings invoking a translation of the cube into traffic parallels: like a desecrated jewish graveyard of paintings stacked against each other like tombstones.

0

Dec 11, 2015

Dec 11, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

the hermitage

if you asked me, i'd tell you that i started reading the master & margarita in st. petersburg... then in the warsaw airport... and that i liked tsar peter's pickled foetuses... but that i found the hermitage a bit leopard-print leotard tacky, i mean a little bit **** nah i mean really really **** ha ha, i mean it was like a carboot sale in essex of a gallery: classics just jumbled up, a junk shop in the least; homelesssness of paintings invoking a translation of the cube into traffic parallels: like a desecrated jewish graveyard of paintings stacked against each other like tombstones.

15

*we just provide the bang, you provide the number of bangs as necessary to craft an execution of poetic extinction via ideology of supposed "survival" with executing the myth of Dr. Faust, because too ridiculous, which begs the question: so Darwin and the Galapagos turtles isn't a good joke akin to some pervert inspecting butterflies who turned out to be a ********** - because of that cherry skin buttocks?* all this LGBT thing going on doesn't appeal to me to reproduce, i just can't be bothered to get married, i can't be bothered feeding heterosexual labour with the end product being higher prostitution of surrogate mothers, you have the power to grow ***** into foetuses and designer babies, i'm not necessary given this passive-peace; i'm liberal up to a point, after that something horrid takes over... leave me alone, get the ***** bank to be completely activated and surrogate mothers the new prostitutes accomplish a new stratum of earning and spending: heterosexuality is dead... or if alive it's what enslaves... i'm no longer the necessary the body to provide choice, science over-powered man, not unlike man over-powering nature akin to china and india, but over-powering nature unable to out-number nature's example of ant of termite; oh indeed the power, and family as pathological... enslaving nature limits our growth, liberating nature dis-inhibits a care to gain power over when still the earthquake and tornado and hurricane... science is merely millimetre and a gram! why take faith in itemisation of such nature when satiated with dinner you take the dog for a walk and still look into the distance without clear dissection - because you do not dissect a living thing, and when science dissects, it presuppose the thing to be dead, whether dead or alive, but in chemistry and physics the thing is either too ridiculous to be alive ' or too grand to be alive - yet the popularisation of a biological theory is like the birds & the bees, and the hives, and the candlestick wax made from pollen of what could have been honey... biologists are the nazis among scientists, because, i mean, they're not exactly surgeons, or medical students, are they? they're about as useful as psychologists when you have historians and literature students to make the healthier point of huh?

0

Mar 10, 2016

Mar 10, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

why chemists hate biologists

*we just provide the bang, you provide the number of bangs as necessary to craft an execution of poetic extinction via ideology of supposed "survival" with executing the myth of Dr. Faust, because too ridiculous, which begs the question: so Darwin and the Galapagos turtles isn't a good joke akin to some pervert inspecting butterflies who turned out to be a ********** - because of that cherry skin buttocks?* all this LGBT thing going on doesn't appeal to me to reproduce, i just can't be bothered to get married, i can't be bothered feeding heterosexual labour with the end product being higher prostitution of surrogate mothers, you have the power to grow ***** into foetuses and designer babies, i'm not necessary given this passive-peace; i'm liberal up to a point, after that something horrid takes over... leave me alone, get the ***** bank to be completely activated and surrogate mothers the new prostitutes accomplish a new stratum of earning and spending: heterosexuality is dead... or if alive it's what enslaves... i'm no longer the necessary the body to provide choice, science over-powered man, not unlike man over-powering nature akin to china and india, but over-powering nature unable to out-number nature's example of ant of termite; oh indeed the power, and family as pathological... enslaving nature limits our growth, liberating nature dis-inhibits a care to gain power over when still the earthquake and tornado and hurricane... science is merely millimetre and a gram! why take faith in itemisation of such nature when satiated with dinner you take the dog for a walk and still look into the distance without clear dissection - because you do not dissect a living thing, and when science dissects, it presuppose the thing to be dead, whether dead or alive, but in chemistry and physics the thing is either too ridiculous to be alive ' or too grand to be alive - yet the popularisation of a biological theory is like the birds & the bees, and the hives, and the candlestick wax made from pollen of what could have been honey... biologists are the nazis among scientists, because, i mean, they're not exactly surgeons, or medical students, are they? they're about as useful as psychologists when you have historians and literature students to make the healthier point of huh?

45

the **** euthanasia scheme would suit people like me with a dermatology problem, wouldn't it? i'm up for it to be re-introduced with those nappy-soaked tears of motor-neuron-disease wheelchair bandits... **** you not i'm all up for the hospital beds to be serving Panzer brigades... they can claim the god of warring for all i care... just get me off this aquatic asteroid pronto! **** your little excuses for slip-ups, get, me, off, this, ******* asteroid! i've seen women begging for a curb on their reproductive capabilities after Chernobyl, don't entice me with *** changes you ****** entitled: supra-feminism... eat your foetuses after they passed capital punishment against my life in the bedroom of some egyptian peasant... as i'll say only once: if you're going to **** me... **** me properly, so, that, i'm, dead! i don't have time for living it out as a ******* what now? no ***** yep... the man is gonna sing an opera à la castrato to the tunes of Michael Jackson.

0

May 6, 2016

May 6, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

pronto!

the **** euthanasia scheme would suit people like me with a dermatology problem, wouldn't it? i'm up for it to be re-introduced with those nappy-soaked tears of motor-neuron-disease wheelchair bandits... **** you not i'm all up for the hospital beds to be serving Panzer brigades... they can claim the god of warring for all i care... just get me off this aquatic asteroid pronto! **** your little excuses for slip-ups, get, me, off, this, ******* asteroid! i've seen women begging for a curb on their reproductive capabilities after Chernobyl, don't entice me with *** changes you ****** entitled: supra-feminism... eat your foetuses after they passed capital punishment against my life in the bedroom of some egyptian peasant... as i'll say only once: if you're going to **** me... **** me properly, so, that, i'm, dead! i don't have time for living it out as a ******* what now? no ***** yep... the man is gonna sing an opera à la castrato to the tunes of Michael Jackson.

23

*it's language, of course i'll be desperately self-conscious and worried and ashamed like i had been caught with a thong, attempting being a transvestite; i'm a man, i ought to be on a building site! instead i have about a hundred chinese per head tailoring and making things tick... what is this **** what, everyone had a poetic potential in them? so poetry has become an excuse, the art of excuses? hey! eh! play the jockey part, i'll do the moaning from now on... be the cashier at a supermarket, i'll do the dying bit of the existential convention of the many trades being advertised to foetuses! well obviously when you make music free all art forms will follows; everyone forget Newtonian causality? good... which means you'll all be artists... in your spare time; i do truly wish i had the inhibitions of a labourer, a smithy, at least then i'd know my life was full; rather than being a scarce exhibitionist as guiding the normalised feeling of inertia, coupled with hopes via the digits of readership.* i can't do anything more to this poem: a Hackney hipster (live editing); i can feel the shame of not owning a cupboard and putting it in there, dyslexia what have you, html typos etc., i guess i'm just worried by the speed of your reading misappropriating it to a different meaning, and undesirable activity via quote into influence of expression that shocks people and gives them straitjackets of hope.

0

Mar 23, 2016

Mar 23, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

concerning a poem

*it's language, of course i'll be desperately self-conscious and worried and ashamed like i had been caught with a thong, attempting being a transvestite; i'm a man, i ought to be on a building site! instead i have about a hundred chinese per head tailoring and making things tick... what is this **** what, everyone had a poetic potential in them? so poetry has become an excuse, the art of excuses? hey! eh! play the jockey part, i'll do the moaning from now on... be the cashier at a supermarket, i'll do the dying bit of the existential convention of the many trades being advertised to foetuses! well obviously when you make music free all art forms will follows; everyone forget Newtonian causality? good... which means you'll all be artists... in your spare time; i do truly wish i had the inhibitions of a labourer, a smithy, at least then i'd know my life was full; rather than being a scarce exhibitionist as guiding the normalised feeling of inertia, coupled with hopes via the digits of readership.* i can't do anything more to this poem: a Hackney hipster (live editing); i can feel the shame of not owning a cupboard and putting it in there, dyslexia what have you, html typos etc., i guess i'm just worried by the speed of your reading misappropriating it to a different meaning, and undesirable activity via quote into influence of expression that shocks people and gives them straitjackets of hope.

15