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"fornicates" poems
*Walter, I just want to sit on my *** and **** and think about Dante.* —Samuel Beckett All this fractures the Wolf. The ancient leaves amid the ancient woods, wind riffling wind in eddies she can see but she can’t hear, the braying of a fatted calf which she could eat, if she could hear thy call, O Wolf. The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll, the crashing cymbals mean to simulate the distant lightning, all the strings—cello, base, violin and viola—play the pizzicato of rain commencing… The Wolf sits to watch—what?—the floodlights fill the stadium? the baton poised? the crowd about to have their daily dose of not quite silence served up yet again? She hates that they have come to watch a prophecy. It’s raining full blast now, the Wolf’s exchange for music, how things balance out, how rain fornicates in the forest, with its pools and puddles, how it tenders lakes and rivers and shadows… It can’t be! Ahead she sees him. She sees Dante, the poet of the prophecy, the one she has to drown. It’s why she’s deaf. She will not hear him wail. **** him so he will rot in hell before the other poet comes. **** him and spare the world another poem about another world. The rain and music grow so dense around her soul. She is so quick, too quick for him to flee. She drags him still alive, drags him to the lake of his heart. Sink and die. In Paradise only bubbles rise. The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll, the crashing cymbals mean to simulate the distant lightning, all the strings—cello, base, violin, viola—play it soft, so soft, as if the rain is about to start… The Wolf and I walk the slopes of hell. When Farinata and Cavalcante rise up to ask her, ‘Who were thy ancestors?’ and ‘Where Is ***** she howls. O Wolf. O Tuscan. She howls.
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Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC
O Wolf, O Tuscan
*Walter, I just want to sit on my *** and **** and think about Dante.* —Samuel Beckett All this fractures the Wolf. The ancient leaves amid the ancient woods, wind riffling wind in eddies she can see but she can’t hear, the braying of a fatted calf which she could eat, if she could hear thy call, O Wolf. The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll, the crashing cymbals mean to simulate the distant lightning, all the strings—cello, base, violin and viola—play the pizzicato of rain commencing… The Wolf sits to watch—what?—the floodlights fill the stadium? the baton poised? the crowd about to have their daily dose of not quite silence served up yet again? She hates that they have come to watch a prophecy. It’s raining full blast now, the Wolf’s exchange for music, how things balance out, how rain fornicates in the forest, with its pools and puddles, how it tenders lakes and rivers and shadows… It can’t be! Ahead she sees him. She sees Dante, the poet of the prophecy, the one she has to drown. It’s why she’s deaf. She will not hear him wail. **** him so he will rot in hell before the other poet comes. **** him and spare the world another poem about another world. The rain and music grow so dense around her soul. She is so quick, too quick for him to flee. She drags him still alive, drags him to the lake of his heart. Sink and die. In Paradise only bubbles rise. The tympani pretend to be a thunder roll, the crashing cymbals mean to simulate the distant lightning, all the strings—cello, base, violin, viola—play it soft, so soft, as if the rain is about to start… The Wolf and I walk the slopes of hell. When Farinata and Cavalcante rise up to ask her, ‘Who were thy ancestors?’ and ‘Where Is ***** she howls. O Wolf. O Tuscan. She howls.
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Hell is when you are in pain But don't show it Cause you don't want a million questions Hell is when you feel pain And there's no moral No lesson When you are trapped in emotion And have no control over what will happen When the tears roll down your cheeks and you can't stop them When your soul is screaming But no one will listen When your soul aches When your eyes are blinded by the heaviness The hurt The pain And knowing that tomorrow, The cycle stays the same When smiling actually hurts your feelings because its proof that you're a liar You're lying to yourself And everyone else Cause when they see that smile They don't see the pain The tears The emotions felt But just a facade you put up Because you're scared. Scared of the implications And seeing how people actually feel- Do they care about me? Only God knows And meanwhile the pain grows Fornicates, multiplies! And so do the lies The "I'm okay"s The "I'm fine"s But back to what I was saying, Hell is when you have a million ways To explain your pain
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Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:45 AM UTC
Hell
1 Ginhoko is a slob he ***** up to the boss and he squeals on his mates May his family starve and may his wife find him always flaccid 2 You loser! You loser! You loser! 3 the woman who walks past our store everyday when I have my tea she is lovely and a fairy - O will she not look at me? 4 The boss is a donkey He eats pig **** and his wife drugs his food and his wife fornicates with the servant while her husband lies drugged, and everyday she winks at me 5 May the world go jump in the ditch! May I alone survive and enjoy the earth! 6 What do you eat? You smell of the backstreets of the red light district where the men go to ease themselves 7 who scribble here is nincompoop
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Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 8:10 AM UTC
7 scribblings on storehouse wall
It takes time to realise the danger of one mistake that fornicates And becomes thousands of sins piled in your eye sockets It takes time to see them spiraling out of your vision -cj
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Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
ugly arithmetic
**Someone once wrote I never thought I’d keep a record of my pain or happiness:** It all started back in two thousand and four That was the day he fornicates with the island ***** Today, I am searching for words and meaning: Of lost, lies and regrets: but what have I done to ensure It would never happen again, I had to clean the mirror of truth: Hold back from falling in love again: **Then I remember the quote: The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart. Quote St. Jerome** On the other hand it was the best thing I ever did: and that was to test the water: Somehow, it made a lot of sense About two is company, three’s is a crowd: What have I done? I let the weasel ran free So that I could have built up some happiness, Yesterday, is history, today is creativity and new ideas Tomorrow seems like pending announcement:
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Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
What Have I Done
He has skeletons in his closet Some hidden secrets which if Revealed, can make Jesus Jump out the casket A monotheistic ****** A gangsta in **** uniform And a fake charismatic pastor A biblical infestation Of a violent history And an outspoken liar With a conformist pride In a world ravaged by sin And self deception A bold proclaimer of Fabled prophetic truths And a foreign convict Of outstanding form For too long he tried Fighting the storm Taken forcefully By the desire of prostitution In gay brothels, and drug peddling An artist in his own right, A spiritual hangover of Kinfolk sorcery A keener kind of being A lover of pets,  and a child molesting adulterer A visionary with a blurred sight An incantation of the most ruthless kind A perverted expert of darts For the animals he fornicates. He has skeletons in his closet Some hidden secrets which if Revealed can make Jesus Jump out the casket.
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Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
Skeletons
Love costs a fee When it comes to love nothing is free We are all incarcerated by emotions we can’t control Tears that always want to pour Hearts that skip beats like a child hopping over puddles Stuck in a love riddle we can never solve Eventually we become free But the price of freedom with love Leads to lonely hearts Sleepless nights Nervousness fornicates with the mind As it births doubt, pain and emotional torture Regretting why you over drafted on love by loving longer, hurting longer What you fought for you have no longer
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Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
Love Costs