"impregnation" poems
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Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Man, woman, fear, touch, kiss, scent, taste, magical embrace, ***********
exaltation, celebration, emotional intoxication, tenderness, cuddling. . .
Fear, doubt, expectation, incrimination, inebriation, allegations, regret,
concerns of damnation, impregnation, incarceration, restraining order. . .
Reconciliation, fear, Man, Woman, touch, kiss, scent, taste, embrace . . .
And you know the rest
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
Impregnation
Inevitably results in conception
You are prolific,
And I, so very fertile.
The gestation period varies
I, heavy with creation
Give birth to words.
Our children delight us
One day, they too
Will speak, and seed.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Hand traces - combing through her hair
Pull closer - leaning in - for the leftover - body
And sleeve is bloodied - "It ain't me"
A pressing on the chest - "He's overdosing"
Fragrant delight - of given vision
Spreading legs - "Let's toss him into bath"
The flow corrupts eyesight and hearing
No echo - dark - she locks and crosses feet
A tracing up her neck - invites hip linger
Sensations thirst - "Just take me" - kissing lips
And vibrant touch of skin - a thrill
Sinks sound - the desperate begging
"Suits you the least" - for being favoured
Hits syringe - light starts to flicker
"Take him by arms" - a splash
And eyelids heavy -
Her fingers digging into back
A jolt - each ******
Is moaned for harder - "Dead"
Convulsion - numbing self
And emptied reasons' dullness - strips
All vomitary hope -
An ache for clarity -
And fertile womb
For "being human" impregnation
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 9:05 AM UTC
Nightfall, through the door,
Bedsprawl, a ritualistic bore. Movements, they're oppressive. Actions, they're aggressive but his eyes, they're depressive.
Our synthetic connection and self-hatred is created with projection and misplaced indignation. There is no love in our heads, no lust in our beds. The fear of emasculation and eternal damnation hides all self-loathing with boasting and congruent clothing.
My Y was castrated. I'm a ****** from the womb. I'm Female, for unsated gloom my X is berated. I'm named a disgusting mutation as he projects his deveation onto the population.
When his shameful "pride" has diminished, I know our joyless formality has finished. He doesn't sit in the pew, yet he stands in the aisle, locked in a prison of denial. Tough and brisant, trying to be what he isn't. He walks out like a ragdoll, his steps aneurysmal with alcohol.
Beside myself, salty tears act as an anaesthetic, the antonym of emotion. An apathetic ocean.
I clutch my centre, the daunting tormentor. Impregnation is a STD, an infection, an infestation. Glue for our miseries to undo our joys. Merriment induced torment, fidelity induced gaiety
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
the dead air shrieks
with a venomous lullaby
slams and reverberates
with salvaged impregnation’s
of speeding threads
a stimulus that empty’s
the insides of short lived
moments between reality
and imagination
provides for scattered
but orderly quatrains
that tremble with the sound
what is it? what is it?
it is the metallic blue guitar
the music of the band
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
I await,
like a weather-beaten statue
for impregnation.
No angel of annunciation
dares to haunt
the sadness of my dark corner.
Outside,
a mountain-ash in blossom
looks forward to bearing
it's fruit of red berries.
I have difficulty in looking that far ahead.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 8:32 AM UTC
She, living in Baltimore,
had not spoken to her Mississippi
sun-burnt father in seven years.
He was a farmer,
she wanted a boutique.
There were the phone-calls,
at least in the beginning,
but then they too dried up
like clay pots cracking under a solar flare.
Her scars were still there at least,
she reckoned,
and those were enough to
disconnect any phone line.
But there is still a gnawing
at her insides, an impregnation
of her nose hairs,
a waltzing of her taste buds.
She picks up the pay-phone,
breathing heavier now,
sobbing as if the dial tone could touch her.
She knows that some fields
just can't stay fallow
forever.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
After years of bleeding
Seeing society retreating
On oil slick sands
On bible belts
And boy bands
The world is ovulating
Waiting for the impregnation
Of a dreamer’s nation
Intertwine
With an age of the mind
The birthing pangs
Blanking on the dark ages
Yet we cycle back
Again
Rising up from
The ocean’s foam
Then sinking
Deeply into
Their dark depths
Another age of greatness is due
Returning
From the spurning of
Science and poetry
FDR to McCarthy trials
Beatniks to Vietnam
The Roman Empire
To the dark ages
The last sages
Got trampled on the road to war
The great poets
Frequently ignored
But it’s time
For another revolution
Evolution
End of pollution
And the dissolution
Of our greed ran
System man
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
jesus came back in 1945 in egypt
with a shepherd
digging the scrolls up:
the nag hammadi library...
the jewish historian josephus wrote
about a false egyptian prophet
~2000 years ago,
dot dot dot...
well... dot dot dot;
counter argument?
in defiance the defence rests its case
with a semi-detached and a roast dinner
every sunday until death do us part.
sorted then!
*** change's a bonus on top of
that balancing act to keep glogotha relevant
in terms of impregnation above the interest
of bethlehem to orientate
east with 3 splinters aimed at gift:
take east and you're looking at a linear
two dimensional realm of preceding allocation...
preceding allocation of the mirage that's
a recurrent but nontheless a receding mark
of served colour...
**** we all missed the 2nd coming in 1945...
the holocaust got the historians clamouring
for the columbus prize - as that famous hip-replacement
for the jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
After years of bleeding
Seeing society retreating
On oil slick sands
On bible belts
And boy bands
The world is ovulating
Waiting for the impregnation
Of a dreamer’s nation
Intertwine
With an age of the mind
The birthing pangs
Blanking on the dark ages
Yet we cycle back
Again
Rising up from
The ocean’s foam
Then sinking
Deeply into
Their dark depths
Another age of greatness is due
Returning
From the spurning of
Science and poetry
FDR to McCarthy trials
Beatniks to Vietnam
The Roman Empire
To the dark ages
The last sages
Got trampled on the road to war
The great poets
Frequently ignored
But it’s time
For another revolution
Evolution
The end of pollution
And the dissolution
Of our greed ran
System man
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
I'm tired of you, because you make me feel like I can't do anything.
I'm tired of you because you make me inadequate for the working world
I'm tired of feeling broken
I'm tired of making plans with my life and being unable to because you come in the way
I beg of you to find someone else
A more desirable body for your impregnation of inaptitude
I'm tired of feelings hopeless
Sleeping all day
I'm tired of you embodying my soul
I'm tired of all of you and every least bit of you
I want to be happy and deserving of this human world.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
sometimes the nobler route involves
living with puny fears,
or like writing poetry with the specifications
of it being unheard,
so that there’s a hoped for sense of fluidity,
but eventually something else emerges,
like the investment in what’s against
the freudian interpretation of dreams,
a way to block images from the unconscious
layering over images from the world
and one’s life;
there’s an antidote to this layering of images
from the unconscious,
it resides in having heard stories from
the days when you were a toddler and
were the opposite of animals and insects,
with weak **** muscles and a weaker bladder,
not even remotely within the architecture of
the collective of herd or swarm, without an individuality
that would precipitate into a consciousness:
with unique self-awareness that’s missing in herring or locust,
that’s how i cured myself from interpreting dreams too much,
this realm that provides false images
and is like a virus for the memory bank of the world
and the winding river of experience that you and i am.
it is relevant then to utilise words to shake off this realm of
image impregnation that can rot away your truer memory,
sure you will remember a dream once in a while,
but to allow interpretation of this dream
and being as lucky as joseph & the pharaoh is no good, unless
the dream is so potent as to predict the future
and only then, because why would any man desire
to uncover the ontology of man to only then justify the evils
and brush aside the good by packaged delay in prisons?
never mind, from what my grandfather said, the utility of words
that became more potent than any image impregnation
in the unconscious: ‘when you were a toddler you used to
put your hand down the alsatian’s gob, right in there
and she didn’t do anything, you grew up with here,
you used to ride her like a horse and she didn’t do anything,
and when someone faked scorn against you she would
bark & bark and protect you.’
there are no pictures of this, therefore no images, only
the noting of the sounds with these phonetic units... and
with these phonetic units noted and compounded into words...
images can be crafted solidly, even though there are no photographs
of this... even though there are photographs of my grandfather.
but the point is... apart from the whole dream impregnation
as an erosion of the truer memory of being awake and in the world...
apart from the jungian theory that we’re like herring or locust
within the framework of the jungian collective unconscious theory...
apart from all this...
my perfect teeth... obviously yellowish (but i rather call them 2nd milky)
from nicotine soot...
and the fact that when a dentist wanted to prescribe me braces once
i refused... and by refusal my teeth aligned like the planets
in a straight line in that fable of someone celestial being born in man.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
From the top of the steep sloping green hills
they sat relaxed on horseback to marvel
in awe at the natural beauty of unspoilt land
uncorrupted by the destruction of progress
taking away the virginity of the landscape
where creatures safely interacted unharmed
by callous hands in pursuit of immoral gain
the countryside balance they did not retain!
With no tall grotesque buildings to sully the view
nor chimneys from factories that regularly
spewed more deadly toxins to choke our lungs
then the air above clear from human impregnation
from more suspected elements of depopulation
weather harsh but the seasons were well defined
there before pollution and technology encased
our lives and the nightmare future to face!
#TheFoureyedPoet.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Hey young man, nervously idling away the fresh blood the creator sent you,
Cowering, afraid of bounteous opportunity while blood turns stale and the keen head turns to mush,
Stop lying to yourself and to your love, desist in piling worries upon her tender frame!
Whilst the blood congeals in the veins
The eyes can grow dull and sickness can mollify the restless spirit.
Open the cells to mineral impregnation,
Calcifying the legs, then the waist, then the chest…
No need for anything dramatic.
No need to open up the veins in hot bath,
And bitterly expire beside the 2 in 1 shampoo/conditioner
As unsuspecting house-mate knocks patiently on the bathroom door:
“(KNOCK, KNOCK KNOCK) are you going to be long in there? I need a poo.”
Why ruin a good door-frame by forcing said house mate into shouldering door from hinge
Only to stumble across sprawled carcass bobbing softly in reddened lukewarm water
Wearing swimming trunks for modesty’s sake.
Why face the posthumous embarrassment
Of having your rambling, hastily scrawled farewell note;
Marred with emo clichés and syntactical errors,
Poured over and scrutinised by judgemental mourners.
Nah.
Just lock that bathroom door deep within your soul
And let the childlike ambitions and desires that defined you
Sink beneath the lapping waters.
Soldier on, mourning the demise of the inner self, for now
Where the excision took place is tender and red
But it will heal.
And you will be free from the burden of self-reflective expectation,
You can dine with the servants; **** up to the inept boss,
Discard the heavy crown of ambition
And walk with a light and merry step into the silence of the grave.
And whilst this resignation is all very well
for a piece of self-pitying prose
Maybe you owe it to that guileless infant
(who art the father of the man writing this)
To do better by him than drown him,
Letting him Go Gentle into That Good Night
Simply because
In the face of unwavering actuality
He has become an inconvenience.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
*women are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever sit on it... but she still plans for the chair to be there. men are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever mind the chair should it be there... and he still doesn’t consider the chair to relate to the possibility of impregnation with his *********** of the ideas she will have to eat as the prime protein... unless of course he’s forced to go against his freedom and enter her will and make god prove himself freely kinned to her will and the chair.*
i love the fact that i can
drink,
write, watch the internet,
then watch the t.v.,
think about the bones of imaginary ******
of my hand,
switch off the t.v.
write,
remember the internet is static unless there’s an imput,
forget that too...
think of something...
that’s like a surgeon’s last sight of life
that’s more than a funeral mantlepiece...
well that’s me... it’s un-rhymed and less classical
that you might feel it might be...
i want to ********** to be honest...
but what’s that, sex’s a handshake?!
well... with so many sorry and soapy faces
i would look uncaring and clean faced to say hello
un-inhibited again... again... again:
i can say say it with a life... or sway saying it
with a profession as an actor; your choice... ha:
he who laughs last laughs true, and all interpretation comes last
as first to define wages in consideration of historians -
i might have said something like iodine matched up the
creases.... although the creases never scented iodine...
and the creases where never a wedding-dress... but skin’s leather
care for aged 80 in homeric blindness:
i might have... should have i doubt unless i was schooled
to be the envious of a circus played...
it doesn’t really matter... like poetry of
girls desiring a contract and newspaper snippets of likes...
for that biography of sylvia plath ending with:
#fucktartbollockshitbiographywaytoolong!
of course... then my ironing playlist changes
and i hear xednomorph’s satan’s presence...
then ooo la dip d’e doo d’ah becomes a *******
that just wanted to **** on santa’s beard to
hear the sunshine song of lapdancing reindeer
turning lapdancing into a shave / sheering:
***** tonk thomas engineer said: plot the blues
in plural for a patched up sacrifice of itchy thumbs up
for the sacrament: icon for a scarce testimony - icon for a scare -
pears i can juggle walking up the stairs...
juggling crucifixes walking up golgotha... i can’t:
if i did... i’d be a pope or a jew!
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Depression comes with tearing her hair loose.
The floor trembles in her presence. She likes my bed the best, curls herself up and weeps in silence.
She looks in a mirror and stands up straight, ***** in her stomach, pushes her shoulders up front and looks idly at what so much inactivity has done to her body.
She is always this way: nearly deteriorated for the heaviness of her heart. How she moves ghostly from place to place. How she can’t look at anyone in the eyes. How she compensates her lack of will with caffeine.
I hold her every night as she cries herself to sleep. I tell her, you can’t stay here forever. There’s things I've got to do.
There's days I come to find her gone. No explanation, no said words, just the smeared mascara of her absence on my pillow.
I lose myself trying to protect her.
It's a unilateral decision, it always has been.
But the longer she stays, the longer this undesirable impregnation of inaptitude stays in my body.
These days, I've conquered the times this disease embodied my soul.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
I’d like to think
That someday I’ll
become a person who
never eats what
isn’t truly delicious
and then I like to hope
it’ll never happen.
Chasms and trenches
are dubbed
such when the depth
is unknown and
this is how the
rift inside me extends,
forever downward
like a true line.
I know not what lies on either side
or how far apart the walls
are spread. What troubles
me the most is this lack of knowledge
in particular:
which will I prefer,
the lack of knowledge
or the irreversible
impregnation of my mind
by a higher resolution
picture of myself?
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Dear diary, today is the day-
The day of communion,
The day of impregnation,
After a series of cursed sterile nights.
So, dare not to hoist any **** excuse
To stay behind the draperies of modesty
And hide your immaculate flesh
From the ferocious tip of
My hungry dying pen.
Let your voluptuous pages
Woo the ink out of my pen
So that, its strangulated wish
To scrawl a masterpiece,
May finally get materialized
On the contours of your *****
©Badee Uz Zaman
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
*yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought,
that biology will never spawn a humanism,
that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts
via disregarding existentialism sweats.*
when was the thought ever conceived,
that dialectics needed a mediator?
why would a mediator be needed
when the only mediator
is a park bench in athens, and two people
speaking?
i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole
wild heart, and shrinking eyesight,
i get that animals are given pristine materialism,
being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation,
i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality
(over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things,
as many qualities to the legions of ants
as attributes of the sun, ending with deity
and beginning with geometry),
animals are plagued by sensuality,
they are overly given the pentagon,
while man is given the hexagon / star of david,
animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking,
when the only phobia of wilderness animal
is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces...
animal is pulverised by the senses and things
it roams among... man is pulverised by thought
and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra
dimming sight with hearing for classical composition,
dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos..
the wild animal in fright of hunger...
and man abounding in it to reflect clocked
chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion
rather than adding to a diversity...
change the poetic gimmick of rhyme...
don't end with synonymous spelling,
intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie:
'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity'
as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both
to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming,
but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down
and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows
and candle in the cave entered... defeated first-step
defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page
that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature
digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual,
and man is overly abstract... hence man
mediates symbols and thinking... while
animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit
like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed
petting:
we blink thrice and think we spotted
a thing only once, when in fact thrice.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
Impregnation
Inevitably results in conception
You are prolific,
And I, so very fertile.
The gestation period varies
I, heavy with our creation
Give birth to words.
Our children delight us
One day, they too
Will speak, and seed.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
Colours, chameleons, snakeskins and the deer that dances across the white wisps of morning.
Numbers that weep, mass numbers that keep the isotope
asleep in a waking state, the meltdown, the run-down and the rich crowned in fine palaces uptown.
Fates and the muse the accusers and those they accuse, the racers, the chasers, the rhyming of grime in the dirt of the day, the way that time will hang me, maybe it wants to bang me, a male state of impregnation my fascination with sea horses.
the lay-by in shop doors, the wasting of drugged ****** the flight of the fancy, another dance of the deer.
The cars that fly by me, the people who try me, those who defy me and those I despise.
The bomb that explodes me and in diagrams downloads me, the workings of watchmen and the watch that don't work.
The young Turks, the old quirks, peccadilloes, worn hedgerows and another dance of the deer.
Robin and Batman both bobbing for apples, grapple hooks at the ready,
utilities all cut-off,
poverty unravelling, travelling slowly up through me making a desert of a fertile sea.
The des res for the wealthy, private care for the wealthily unhealthy and the rotting of yesterday's news.
All what I view is all that I know and now you know it too.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
Being a Tampax might be fun stuffed up a **** all day
It may not be that creamy but a bit of reds okay
If you're on your monthly you haven't got much say
At least you wouldn't have someone's ***** getting in the way
White and fluffy I would be soft upon my ***********
I would start expanding when you begin your ************
Forcing me to press on your sides much to your frustration.
Because you would be on the blob causing my inflation.
You would probably be upset with that ****** infestation
It may not be much fun for you, the lack of stimulation
If your pussy's full of jam there could be a consolation
Strawberry juice is soaking up not much chance of impregnation
Maybe you could see things from the tampons point of view
It's the only time they get chance to have a **** good *****
They can't wait to fly of the shelves and go inside of you.
Hurry up that time of month you know what you must do.
But there's definitely a downside to being a jam rag
Even though you'd be up a **** longer than a ****
Like the red and white menstrual show, or a red tipped ***
You'd get too wet and taken out, a used up ***** gag
Mid period you'd get replaced that is the biggest snag
You would smell and get thrown away in a sanitary bag
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC