"gaul" poems
**Drop your Grudge Rants
by the door
We Will Not Tolarate
This Anymore
Edit and toss Distasteful Rhymes
Ugly Poems with Vain designs
Haughty thoughts and
bitter words
Childish petty accusing verbs
Who did What to Who and When
Will this Clusterfuck never end?
Selfish actions, Spoiled Children
We Refuse to be your Minions
Like CNN
And Drone Fox news
We've had enough of
Self Serving views
Hurting hearts, far and wide
tender Poets with
tenuous pride
Yet, Strutting and Indignant
for who I ask?
All those involved,
A Donkeys ***
Not a home for
Egotistical Zealots
Nor a place for
flinging pellets
We come in Peace, HP to share
Not get caught in ugly snares
And to the few that
have the gaul.
"If you have nothing decent to say,
say nothing at all"**
**YOU CHOOSE TO USE
HP THIS WAY.
GO AWAY. FIND SOME
WHERE ELSE TO PLAY.**
●HELLO●HELLO●HELLO●
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
As if he had been poured
in tar, he lies
on a pillow of turf
and seems to weep
the black river of himself.
The grain of his wrists
is like bog oak,
the ball of his heel
like a basalt egg.
His instep has shrunk
cold as a swan’s foot
or a wet swamp root.
His hips are the ridge
and purse of a mussel,
his spine an eel arrested
under a glisten of mud.
The head lifts,
the chin is a visor
raised above the vent
of his slashed throat
that has tanned and toughened.
The cured wound
opens inwards to a dark
elderberry place.
Who will say ‘corpse’
to his vivid cast?
Who will say ‘body’
to his opaque repose?
And his rusted hair,
a mat unlikely
as a foetus’s.
I first saw his twisted face
in a photograph,
a head and shoulder
out of the peat,
bruised like a forceps baby,
but now he lies
perfected in my memory,
down to the red horn
of his nails,
hung in the scales
with beauty and atrocity:
with the Dying Gaul
too strictly compassed
on his shield,
with the actual weight
of each hooded victim,
slashed and dumped.
3.5k
I hope I see the moon in the British Aisles
So I can imagine myself staring from home.
I hope I see the moon from Belgium
as I imagine the old lover I will never forget gazing, exhausted, from Uxbridge.
I hope I seee the moon from Paris
so I can imagine the millenia of poets and I-love-you-till-it-kills-me romancers gazing from French cafes, sipping on their
wine, coffee, tea
and I think of great friends in Victoria, glancing towards it from busses 9 hours later on a commute to Uptown
Downtown
what town?
I hope I see the moon from Vancouver
so I can imagine child-me watching the white of the cheese-like craters wondering nothing
but so, so very curious.
I hope I see the moon from Toronto
past smog and spring-time city shadows
so I can imagine the short-lived friends I made in Ottawa looking to it with awe and smiles
grasping the fingers of a loved one.
Everytime I see that great omnipotent orb I imagine
Marcus Aurelius in the court of Rome
Julius Caesar on the battlefields of Gaul
Charlemagne crossing the Rhine
St. Augustine marching through the desert
Micochondrial Adam tossing a spear into the heart of a boar
Soldiers of the American Revolution
the British war for South Africa
the Prussian Empire
the Third *****
Siddhartha and his son
Li Po hugging his moonlit reflection
Han Shan on cold mountain
Kerouac in San Francisco
Burroughs in Morocco
Snyder in Japan
Thomas walking to work
Brian out on a stroll
My future life lover
future girlfriends
all gazing at that wonderful omnipotent moon
the same moon
that gazes so still
so patient
forever
as far as
I'm concerned.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 5:23 PM UTC
I find a part of me produces verse
(well, not verse, not really).
Really, I produce a play.
So, really, the part of me producing verse
produces parts.
So, really,
The part of me producing plays
is part-producing.
The work this part of me produces ,
produces parts in verse.
But really,
It's an inverse play, since really,
the work (a play, with parts in verse)
(Or, really, a play with verse in parts))
is divided into three parts. Like Gaul.
Within this work, this play,
these three parts produce
(or, really, reproduce) a play.
This play, in verse, within this work,
is, in part, an inverse play,
since, really, they produce (or really, reproduce)
a part of me.
The play plays back a part of me -
an inverse play plays back words, in verse,
ever onward.
It's a bit of a play on words, really.
It's partly words at play.
It's partly an inverse play,
producing bit parts in verse with verse parts,
in bits.
Or really, the parts produce plays, that is,
A part of me produces verse and
in part, the verse produces the play.
This inverse play produces parts
these parts, inverse, produce a play,
this play, in part, produces (reproduces) me.
The work is a play on words.
The play is a work in verse.
The work is an inverse play.
But not really.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
I drop to my knees.
I keel over, coming hard.
My **** in your mouth;
My throbbing **** in both your palms,
I sink calmly into oblivion,
The happy ending devoutly to be wished,
For any ******* worth its salt,
What most matters to draftees of the Legion,
Roman plebeians applying most of their salary
To local honey BJs.
Salt: the poor man’s ******
Go ahead sacrifice my life for Rome,
Waste me in Gaul or Britannia,
**** me away for the Empire,
Exploit my wives,
Demean my offspring prostitutes.
But, please,
Just leave me my *** and TV,
Free Velveeta and Obama-Care.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
I claim to have empathy
But I also know I'm lacking.
I chuckled when you said
You'd marry him
You're in high school, sweetie
And when it didn't work out
I wasn't at all surprised.
When you ******* about your life
My mind was on mine
When you made every small problem
Bigger than it needed to be
My thoughts immediately said
"It could've been worse"
But my mouth didn't dare.
And then you have the gaul to tell me
That I'm being pessimistic and whiney
After all the times I bit my tongue
In front of you?
Sorry honey,
But I can falsify empathy for you.
If it's sympathy you want
Go look elsewhere.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
A selection of limericks
There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks
-----------------
Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet
-----------------
A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification
-----------------
A sculptor named Arnold Duprees
Carved a **** plug from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze
-----------------
Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould
-----------------
Oh ***** you make my knees quiver
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver
-----------------
A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
So much is written
in between the pages of that book
If you're judging me by what is written, you need to take another look
You don't know that I'm a mother
I've worked hard all my life
I raised little a family
I was my husband's wife
We had a little girl
who couldn't breathe right on her own
I wasn't even with her
I could not take her home
I had a little boy who now is six foot eight
I love my children dearly don't tell me it's too late
I tried to be the daughter
My Father wished I'd be
I have the greatest people
who make up my family
Alone I carry burdens
not written anywhere
so don't you whisper I'm a coward
don't you EVER even dare
Like my daughters fight
to earn a spot here on this earth
what you're reading on those pages
shows nothing of my worth
I will not allow you
to trample
on my name
was given by my father
who'd put your *** to shame
I love my little family
dysfunctional and all
Your hurtful foolish words
well they really take some Gaul
I am quite intelligent
I'm sure you know it's true
I put you in your place
and now you know just who
I am.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
Lucinta slams fist against her breast
Cerberus three-headed dog howls
In unison screams, either side of dream
“Take his body from this place!”
Christians march sewers of Rome
Mauritanian archer recognizes his face
Sebastian’s body is resumed
And buried at the feet
Of Peter and Paul, ground so hallowed
Irene and maidens weep
Her herbs, tincture not swallowed
This time it is for keeps
Diocles murdered twice
This Patron Saint of Athletes
Piercing arrows, which were undone
By Irene’s tender grace, now replaced
With blows of clubs by Emperor
Of a Rome which begins to waste
He saw it coming, plague of plagues
And knew the Christ was Risen
He ****** all from Milan to Gaul
And Christians were so imprisoned
And each convinced another man
Of this immaculate and pristine vision
So on it goes unto this day
Athletes wear insignia on silver medal
And delivery to us a new plague
While good veiled Italian women do peddle
The famous artists nouvelle vague
Will this martyrdom ever not settle?
Sebastian as Sadomasochist
Will you hear devotee’s prayer?
Or must I continue to pierce myself
With points from here to there?
End thine madness thyself
And show this world your care
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
When ancients in our eyes waged war in green Gaul,
He fought for new wealth and nobleman's glory,
He rose from mud where slave-spears lay shattered,
And raised the good name of his house from disgrace.
Binding giants in a favorable pact,
The consulship could well be attained,
But men of the day could not perceive greatness,
And barred him from beloved Rome.
So he rode out and vanquished the untamed Gauls,
Who once had brought Rome to its fearful knees,
Winning victory after victory in forests of the north,
Splitting oaks in the east, where his sword marred its sheen.
When fleets by Britain's cliffs hemmed the horizon,
When the seat of the Sphinx was polished marble-gold,
There were ten thousand Greeks could tell of his exploits,
And ten hundred Egyptians who claimed to know him.
With rude steel, he mastered the Mediterranean,
And over the Earth he brandished civilization.
In later years, his heirs spread like a stain upon the land;
The seas too were dyed with Roman sails,
And every coin minted bore the face of Caesar.
Even now, though the empire is hardened like iron,
And purple luxury replaces the crimson of war,
There are still a few among us who remember
Our young and mighty red-feathered conqueror.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
Soft kisses.
Who could have thought to be so aggravating?
Death never watched the Spartans.
I feel, as Brutus did, stuck in Gaul!
And Caesar's words do not convince me to stay.
His words are poisoned with too much thought.
My own carry on the wind...
Maybe...
Maybe a distant ***** shall hear them.
And save herself from a life of,
pleasurable misery.
Alpha-centauri does not concern itself with
these matters.
So neither will I.
GRAHAM MURPHY.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
The dying gaul,
in my mind,
saw three days of mad war.
Empire had come to batter,
the forests that stood the doors of home.
Swords were run through the woodland gulleys,
making way for culture's end,
for yet more roads to lead to Rome.
And the sculpture speaks,
upon a shield,
of limbs for quieting dreams to rely on.
A veined marble hand kisses lightly to the knee,
saying in some wild, dead tongue:
"Sleep.
So long have you carried me."
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
I'm tired of hearing
About how we're all
Made of stardust
Stars, stars, stars
Like so many
Shakespearean sonnets
Maybe I want
The sliding plates of my wrist
To be made from the jawbone
Of a T-Rex
And the electrons in my brain
To have once sparked down
In a rainstorm
Over ancient China
The night the emperor died
And I wish I could go back
8 million years
To make sure that the charcoal
In your sketchbook
Is made from the roots
Of your favorite flowers
And press their petals
Into your chalk pastels
The steel second hand in the watch
Of the man in the elevator
Certainly isn't the dainty spun glass
Of a supernova
But rather the sliver of the sword
That my ancestor threw
At the feet of his
On the moors of Gaul
All those years ago
Its ancient ticking
Reminding me of debts unpaid
While the soles of his shoes
Are worked from the tar
That killed my wrist bones' sire
Eons past
We're not made of stardust,
We're made of each other,
Every atom accounted for
Between us
With nowhere to go
But on
And on
And on
Chasing each other through
Every metamorphosis
Until they've clashed and kissed
So many times
That we rip the cosmos in half
And catch fire in the debris
We're not made of stardust.
We're making it.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
I guess its time to tip the flask
while taking up another task
writing down my hurt and pain
in messages, I bleed in vain.
Taking leave, I bid adieu
thanking them & thanking you
hope I find inspired thought
else it seems, it's all for naught?
Trouble brought by words we say,
or folded hands we teach & pray,
perhaps I'll write another day?
Until then, I say farewell,
in stories I may never tell,
intentions good, paving roads
we're hoping to relieve the load.
Kissed by luck & slapped by fate
I live by love, & not by hate
so here's to them & here's to you
something that we all must do
scraping off the sticky shoe
& all the nasty residue...
A poets heart is sometimes frail
while looking for the Holy Grail
in spinning webs, a haunting tale
this time of year reminds us all
someone must have quite the gaul,
to write of leaves and how they fall
Seems I've got a poetic curse,
I suppose that things,
they could be worse
keep on spilling, verse and verse
Lifting up the bones I bury,
digging down can be quite scary
sometimes even slightly harry
even though I'm kinda wary
I write again for you.
Cherie Nolan
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
He’d been away with the army then
For almost twenty years,
And walking back to his village he
Had expected smiles and tears,
He thought his wife would be waiting there
Though his son, he knew, was grown,
He’d been away and protecting them
Though the soldier, now, was home.
He saw the village had barely changed
Though the people stood and stared,
He thought that they were in awe of him
Could it be the village cared?
They took in his battered breastplate and
The dents that marked his greaves,
The helmet that had been battered and
The blood on his chain-mail sleeves.
He’d walked for several miles since when
His horse had collapsed and died,
It weathered many a battle but
Fell foul of the countryside,
But soon he’d take off his armour when
He would meet again his bride,
And she would make him a pottage, and
Rejoice that he hadn’t died.
He’d tramped in the lands of Burgundy
He’d fought in the land of Gaul,
He’d taken the Cross to Saladin
And wept at the Wailing Wall.
His face bore scars from the sword and lance
And a mace had raked his back,
From a knight behind who had been struck blind
In a frontal, forced attack.
He’d waded deep in a sea of blood,
He’d trampled a field of bones,
And helped to bury his comrades there
Marking the place with stones,
But now his body was tired and worn
It was leave the field, or die,
His horse had brought him wandering home
To the village of Burton Rye.
His wife came out from the cottage door
And she blanched, and shook in fear,
‘I don’t know where you are coming from
But you don’t belong in here!’
He glanced at the short and thickened form
That he didn’t recognise,
‘Are you the wife I’ve been fighting for,
If so, my memory lies!’
‘You went away in another life
Leaving none to warm my bed,
I took a shine to the blacksmith here,
Fell in love with him, instead.
It’s twenty years since you went away
Did you think you could return?
You’ve lived the life of a soldier, all
You do, is pillage and burn.’
‘I had to go to protect you here,
Out there, it’s a world at war,
I’ve fought the enemy everywhere
To keep the pain from your door.
I loved you when you were slim and young
And your eyes were bright with cheer,’
His shoulders slumped and he turned away,
‘I see I’m not wanted here!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
She was every captain's secret,
Five hundred fathoms deep.
She haunted and charmed the waters so,
And chased the dreams from your sleep.
Her ghost was known to plague our nets,
To dance across the ocean waves.
The bloodied corpses of her children fled
To the beaches where they would be safe.
That night her body, titanium clad,
Punctured the wall between our worlds.
Her arms, a strange bewildered dance
As startled, she uncurled.
The gaul of those men who found her!
Breaking into her home!
She had run from every advance they sent
But legends never die alone.
So few of our men indulge in mystery.
So few embrace the unknown.
Most seek to banish the fear and wonder
And so legends never die alone.
They are prisoners chained to mortal bodies
And drawn from the depths of the sea.
Her eyes, I swear, had pearls of tears
As I watched the Giant Squid flee.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
Whilst your Limb empowered by Time to Heal
That which your Friend noted her Plans devote:
From Annam the Gaul's Ancient War reveal
To Isles by Men for Common Tongue connote
As Best her Experience with Flights relate,
Soothe her Pleasures as yours induced on Ice
Shall your Joints move; Then take to Sky's Rebate
To free Screaming Cages from your Respite
Now this - another Phase for Life's extoll
Which thus should Widen your Circumference
To infuse Cultures your Open Arms install
Then increase your Learning and Difference.
Pray tell, your Inner Friends their Best Tales share
Spread such Values for your Tolerance care.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
Another candle on the cake
Another wasted year where nothing has changed
Ya know, when I was younger I thought by this point
I’d have my whole life arranged
“How’s the birthday boy” they ask
They’re not too wrong, you see
If I’m 22 two years old
Then how come I’m only half the man I used to be?
You asked me how I am?
Well, what am I supposed to say?
“Can you supply me with a basic, depthless response?”
I think that’s what you meant to say
Because if I told you how today makes me feel
You’d wonder why I’d have the gaul to ruin Your day
You’re here to celebrate
Whereas I’m here to entertain you until you go away
But Grandma, if you really want in
On today’s daily dose of looming existential dread
Let me blow out the candles first,
And then I’ll let you inside my head
They say when you blow out the candles you’re supposed to make a
wish
And every year- for as long as I can remember
I’ve had but one wish
That always goes unanswered
I wish that someone could love me
And fix me
Put on a suit of armor to help me fight my
Depression and anxiety
I wish for a companion
Who would never rest until I loved myself as much as they love me
Someone who’d never give up on me
For absolutely no reason or rhyme
I’m so sick and tired
Of being so eager for these wishes
Knowing that there’s no magic
But yet, hopelessly begging there’s power in this tradition
But this year, Mary
I didn’t wish for any of that
Because I’m tired of hoping and wishing.
I just wish for it all to be over
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
I was a soldier of Rome
and my thoat is now split open
Split it was by a Gaul
Fighting to destroy the Republic.
I hope the earth is nourished by my blood
And life grows from it
For so much has been lost
In this senseless slaughter.
Do they not see the light of Rome?
Civilizations luster?
We bring fire to the shadows of the world
To cast them aside, tear them asunder.
Our cause is just, our will cannnot be stopped
The world shall be roman
We bring justice and order!
My sword may decorate the ground
And my armour my lifeless body
Behind me marches the strength of legions
From it ten more will take my place
For victory! For glory!
I was a warrior from Gaul
Sixteen springs alive
Cut down in my prime
To defend my home
From Rome´s thrist for land
They come forth from beyond the mountains
A ravenous, barbarous horde
They loot, and **** and pillage
Torching everything they touch
Can they not see our life is just?
And it is peace, not man, who governs this grooves?
We live, we love, we grow
They tend to their business and we to ours.
Yet they now come
And my body may give life to the forests
And from the forests forth shall spring my brothers
To **** For victory and glory!
I am a crow
I shall feast on them both
Life shall indeed spring forth
The maggots
The flies
And many, many more of us.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 6:46 PM UTC
Negatives
"You want to be a big kid, don't you?"
I was seven
You were fourteen.
Why would you think that's okay
To say to someone as vulnerable as me?
"Can you just whining about it?
It's happened to you, it's happened to others
Move on."
You were my first love
How can you do this to me?
You were supposed
To love, and cherish, and support me
So what gives you the right
To make snide remarks about my abuse?
"You would have locked him up for life?
He was a kid too.
It would be a little drastic to make him pay
For that mistake forever."
How the hell can you say that?
You were molested too
And you have the gaul to try to convince me
Not to press charges?
Now I'll be the one paying for it
Forever.
*"You're only fun when you're *****
You assaulted me
Even if I can barely bring myself to believe it.
You made my life hell
And wouldn't let up
Your psychological grip on me.
I was grieving
And you took advantage of me.
**** you, you *******
"If you really cared
You would have told someone sooner.
All you do is cause drama."
You were supposed to be my friend
And you begged me to know what happened.
I was just trying to protect her
When I told her to stay away.
"All guys do that.
It doesn't make it right
But you just feel this way because you regret it."
You had always been there for me
And I know you didn't mean to hurt me
By saying this.
It minimized what happened
And made me ashamed to tell other people
Because I was afraid I was being over dramatic.
Positives
"I'll keep him away from you.
He makes me sick to my stomach."
You are more than just my manager
You treat me like your daughter.
When he came back to work
You protected me
And I can never thank you enough for that.
"You are not overreacting!
I can't believe you are as strong as you are."
As my best friend
I would expect nothing less
Than for you to be there for me through all of it.
And yet, hearing that
Took a huge load off of my already breaking back.
"We love you no matter what
It is your decision about pressing charges."
Although I never went through with it,
I know you would have been my biggest supporters.
I do not know why
My second assault has yet to come to your attention.
Mom and dad,
We haven't always gotten along
But this was one situation in which
I could not have had better parents
And I cannot thank you enough.
"I will go to the ends of the Earth to help you."
You are a guidance counselor
And it may be your job to do this
But it made me feel like everything I felt
Was validated.
It made me feel like I had a hero
On my side.
To all of the negatives:
Get out of my life.
To all of the positives:
I can never show you
How much I appreciate
Everything you have done.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Try talking to a solid brick wall
I'd rather be butchered by the entirety of Gaul.
Where the teeth are cemented in between
Lips sealed shut hiding things unseen.
Behind is a mystery, with no clue about
A waste of time for one to find out,
and explore and analyze and test and hypothesize
the infinite possibilities of outcomes and probabilities.
At the same note, the outside you see- hear cannot
Refusing Eye, Ignoring Ear, causing thoughts to clot.
One thing everybody knows is that
It's the only passageway to the brain. Fact.
Try talking to a stone brick wall
See if you get through or not at all.
Un-moving un-changing
Forever remaining.
The same.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
Trolley lost with abandoned rage
Car park full an inverted cage
Wind and rain oh what a bore
Loose trolley smashed into your door
Ketchup bottle top, tons of crud
Sink full up from your best bud
Jobs not finished or badly rushed
And toilets stinky left unflushed.
Don't get me started on internet bloggers
Or motorway madness middle lane hoggers
At roundabouts waiting, sitting keen
Folks turn off no indicator seen
Another thing that gets my gaul
Are those that drive with no lights at all
And later patience is almost gone
Come home to find all lights left on
Don't get me wrong I do complain
When the tv's drowned out with a plane
So tonight I'll sit down with a beer
And wish you all, Happy New year.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC
you know it needs the thumb, index, middle and ring fingers to clasp the eroticism of the neck for the geese to fly in man inverse to the hellish fires of emotion that have no sense of temperament?
even the existential french philosopher sartre was fooled
by what the common man conquered
deemed the end of rome...
but the conversion gave us the long standing
byzantines: saint who never warred
and so warring turned to sainthood,
but the man was rags to riches fraud,
as archaeology - that thing above history proves:
can't deny the papyrus came from india
when it was found in egypt by a real shepherd:
unless you're in it for the money...
and not the fact that pharisees would not have
thrived unto exdous for muscle the 2nd time,
so why such intellectual diversity and thriving
under roman rule... because there was no dislocation?
the conversion of constantine empowered 2nd rome,
byzantine fabrics of jewel of sainthood
than never took to taking an acorn for some reason...
western rome was overrun with orcs, northern folk
previously not conquered when julius caesar looked
and the women of gaul and said: easy **** soldiers...
easy **** brit girls easy too, but have to pierce
the membrane of fickleness that mediates man conquering
and man scheming (paedophiles).
of course women are worth the conquest...
but in a western society what wages "justifiable"
as war outside of itself... inside it there's a sexist war of pacifism
of one *** *** changes... you name it...
in a society that exports war and imports pacifism
you will only get angry women and confused men...
pacifistic war is far from the pacific,
it's horrid... woman gets all the weapons:
**** **** nakedness, ***** and *******
man gets confused with what war is actually for:
profit... so he earns his share...
honestly... even though he's not warring...
so woman lives longer... becomes entombed
with inheritance... gets ken barbie the 2nd
******* of flamboyant killjoy mansion investments...
and it's equal: the worst sexism is one
that demands a pacifism of one *** but not both;
and we're living in a time when masculine sexuality
is pacified, and where feminine sexuality
is warring... easily duped by womanising wolves
that would reincarnate the third ***** somewhere
far from germany... like syria.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
I feel gross every time you enter the room.
I wish you weren't around so much.
You convinced me things would be okay,
And I was a big girl,
I knew what I was getting into.
Or so I thought.
You walk near me,
Have the gaul to touch my arm or say hello,
And I find my self overcome with nausiousness.
And we didn't even sleep together,
Because I wouldn't let you go that far.
What can I even call it?
It wasn't ****
Because there was no *** involved.
And I did not say "no",
But I was not in a clear state of mind.
You knew that.
And you took advantage.
You lied.
You manipulated.
You stole.
And according to them,
This is all my fault.
I'm the one who has to pay now,
And I shower up to four times a day
If I see your face.
You make me sicker than sick.
Thank for nothing, scumbag.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
so many bodies
in Spartacus' wake,
his body never found
the historians say,
six thousand men
crucified a horde of others
dead, all along the banks
of the river Sale,
in the High Sele Valley,
Nowhere was he found.
His life a myth now.
His purpose also, a question mark,
what his intent was ,
whether he tried to free enslaved people,
or escape with his hoard into Gaul. His mission
and mistakes paint a vision..
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC