"orgy" poems
Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn,
More coiled steel than living - a poised
Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs
Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce,
a stab
Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing.
No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states,
No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab
And a ravening second.
Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained
Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats
Gives their days this bullet and automatic
Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth
That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own
Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which
Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it
Or obstruction deflect.
With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback,
Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk,
Carving at a tiny ivory ornament
For years: his act worships itself - while for him,
Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and
above what
Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils
**** and hosannah, under what wilderness
Of black silent waters weep.
41.2k
My Little Black Bear
Down by the singing river
Dancing with fate
Little ducks take to the rapids
Away from your dinner table
Off to the banks
You stand your grounds
Tall as you are wide
Your initials in the terrain
Cursive is the eye tooth that reigns
I see you
Posing with the lilies,
Elves and dwarfs
As the western sky looks down
Casting whispers
Is your closet filled
With both helping
The meek and sustenance
Under the skirts of nature
You're having an ****
Robbing all the salmon
And berries
Then slumbering under a tree
Tummy full
Those big black eyes of yours
Catching shut-eye,
a couch potato, a game of the week
Your wide open mouth
Catching a bee,
A refreshment
That long smile on your face
Backpacking a dream
Mama and her cubs having your back
In some ways
My little black bear ...
hear, here
I see you, in me
Logan Robertson
8/08/2018
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
Saturated in steely blue clutches, sweating from the 75 degree Georgia night
strung up and washed out with a serpent woman that keeps bringing on the blight
Singing you a song of bliss and blinders.
A big brick red boot on your neck and a green collar that reads The Gardens *****
The Garden takes the taxes tightens up the lead and never relaxes
Hit ya where ya like, the pain is disguised, leather tastes like candy, The Gardens got ya hypnotized.
Your late night camping sight attracts the moon light parasite, that acolyte of appetite, Tonight your the Gardens Delight
You wanna run but she's got those hooks between your shoulder blades feeling like an inexorable **** of silk, smoke and skin.
She gives you every thing you need,
Fountain heads of intemperance and black out nights
Whole streets smelling like grease and charcoal charbroils
Men and women of dexterous lechery, feverous severance, and generous deference
Crystals for your cranium, high altitude dives and the lowest lows.
A cacophony of any entertainment you might want or need, just as long as its seedy.
The Garden keeps blinders on your head to make sure you can't see anything she doesn't want you to.
Try to remove em and the punishment is usually severe.
She might give you the greatest loves you've ever known and turn em to photographs, blot em with LSD and trip you out on memories.
And when you come back to what you think reality is she'll take those photographs and burn em up right in your face and leave you asking if any of it really happened while feeling like it was the realest thing that ever has.
She'll break you and build you up, build you up and break you worse. A cycle of bad things feeling real good.
The Garden will do everything in her power to keep you right here.
But if you can get all those straps and tight leather off, all those hooks and chains.. If you can escape her steely blue clutches,,
You'll finally see how wrong you've been done, and your still gonna want her back in some strange way..
but you might start to heal....
But know this.
No matter where you might run off to,
You'll still be hearing The Garden City call.
That siren song of bliss and blinders.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
The vampire really craved him some blood,
And thank god; they'd just buried Mrs. Flood:
He pried open her casket,
And was using his ratchet-
But her fluids had turned thick as mud.
Two vampires decided to dine
On a lady, whose blood was like wine;
While pausing to savor
It's delicate flavor,
One said, the House issue is fine!
Vampires sleep days and fly nights,
They are known to be fearful of lights,
And feeding's quite a trick;
It's got a big kick-
Though impossible, with bad over-bites.
To a vampire, an orgy's a feast
On the blood of man, bird or beast;
And he's not into zoology
Psychiatry or psychology;
Doesn't even care, if it's deceased.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees
behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations
your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred **********
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss
I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake
then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild **** By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
And we’ve all been there, me and my lovers,
we’ve all see our fair share of troubles.
cause Romance is Chance in the form of a Dance
and I’m sorry to say I still move like I did fifteen years ago.
Macarena with me and I’ll sweep you off your feet,
maybe someday I’ll learn to waltz and blow you away.
Until it all comes crashing down.
Because inevitably it all comes crashing down
even the Flintstones died millennia ago.
My Anna Marie, I’m sorry you left,
Europe ringed and you answered,
I guess we couldn’t afford long distance
(is that even still a thing?)
and I couldn’t wait for you,
I was too young and too ready to love again.
Dear Jenna,
Darling,
as much fun as you are
we move at different speeds,
and mine’s stuck in the slow lane.
I liked *** on the second date,
but I wasn’t ready for the **** three weeks in.
God knows I’d never try and change you
even he doesn’t have the ***** to try.
And God bless you Tiffany,
cause it ***** to die,
but it ***** even more
stuck here saying goodbye.
Bachelor Status reaffirmed:
**** sites filled to capacity
with self-made men of audacity
come to satisfy their proclivities
“Dear phantom girlfriends,
you’re here to gratify
Please entertain us in our fantasies
and our impossibly similar tendencies.
Also, it wouldn’t hurt if it’s all free.”
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
Money melting in a spoon,
let's shoot it into our veins.
Flashing Kardashian lights,
streaming into our brains.
Donald Trump! He's our man!
Mark Muslims is the plan!
All-you-can-eat-
Pile. It. The. **** High.
When you walk or
When you talk,
let the words squeak out
like they're between
Your thighs.
Thighs. American thighs,
Dreaming next to our Calvins.
Our slacktivism, our regurgitated ideas
spitballing out of our McDonald's mouths
into our peers' ears, distilled by years
And years of "almost-knowledge"
that we quasi-ascertained,
if we knew what that meant --
but we've been left behind!
No child left the **** behind!
We were left behind and there's no
possible way we slacked off, that we're dumb,
that we aren't the movie stars destined for
Lamborghini cars, five-star bars, designer bodies
for designer you and designer me:
the most special of the unique, the
Pearls that have been made in the
darkest parts of the sea, the darkest parts of
origin. Origin. ****** ****
American **** virginal ideals sliding around
the muck of a marketable **** fuckfest,
******* of the American mind, the
congratulations of the American ego,
the proud mother and father tears associated with
buying and lying, "trying" and frying our food,
our ideas, our friends, our neo-impressionistic
children in Jordans, skinny jeans, on tumblr:
the unknowing cousin of Fox News, surprised
by its own wit and wisdom: they're ******* twins.
Carbon copies, unknowing, unwilling, un-un-un.
The romanticism of mental illness.
The close-up of reality-tv emotion.
The manipulation taught to servers
from managers.
The manipulation taught to customers
from society.
All we care about is **** image, and ***
Self-preservation: **** Donald Trump
and **** you.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Spirits may come spirits may go.
The only talk to those they know.
Those who have a lending ear and listen to the others here.
Usually grey haired old bags with 20 cats and 40 ****
But Anna isn't quite the same she's not what visitors expect.
She greets each one with a smile.
But their eyes can't see they miss by miles!
Instead the look upon her chest, for what a smashing pair of *******
I even think the spooks just come to take a peak at her ***
Imagine that a ghost on top with an enormous supernatural ****
Slid between her silky legs until she screams and begs and begs.
A medium she thought it was, in fact it was an XL ****
A frenzy in the reading room as more arrive to see her moan.
It's like a wiken **** now, at 44 she's in her prime.
I wonder who will "come" next time.
The psychic circle all a gasp, are playing with their mortal tackle.
Who would have thought she wore a basque, underneath a witches tac.
Now its like a wanking club, spooks and mortals all a tug.
finally she howls with delight.
Another soul has seen the light!
So remember when you see her pass check her **** and little *** imagine she's on top of you in stockings basque and heels to.
Though one thing you should bare in mind...
Unless your dead forget it mate!
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
Soft curdled interior now at its eutectic
Holds a bifurcated square of gluten
Equally carbonized together
In an **** of ill-advised but sensual nutrition
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Have you seen it?
Seems like I've misplaced my mind.
I had it for a while...
Now it seems like I'm flying blind.
Can't piece out my thoughts,
a cacophony of riled up birds.
An **** of broken lines...
Overlapping and blurring into incomprehensible words.
Wandered in almost every direction,
but seem stumped at every end.
My mind is rapidly turning,
more foe and less a friend.
Confused is what it is at best.
Derailed far from its once reliable track.
Need to quickly regain my centre,
need desperately to get it all back.
Conjured this up...
With much difficulty.
Strenuous exercise...
For what once flowed freely.
Could it be...
That I have too frequently misused.
The welcome I've received,
that I have carelessly abused.
Ugh... Makes no sense...
Never have for a while.
Conflicting thoughts and words.
Crash into each other into a pile.
Need a reboot,
a reset and a restart.
Need to find my muse,
that stems from the heart.
Curse the mundane!
These excruciating hours of the day.
Begging for the nights,
to take me and my mind away.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
* **A blank canvas on an easel
Not splashed with hues, yet
Yearning for the stroke of a brush
And be painted with the painter’s dream
Most intimate of moments coming alive
Reflecting the colors of the heart and mind
Stroke after stroke, brushes caresses it
Coming alive, with passionate undertones
In cahoots with the painter, an **** of colors
Brushes of passion, colors the emptiness
A masterstroke of the painter; the canvas is filled
With these kaleidoscopic moments
Vivid imagery of the painter’s heart, is an Arts saga** *
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC
The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ********** that does it.
But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.
Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor orgy-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****
What more can you want from a one night stand?
After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.
After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.
After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
It is early.
and the world hangs silent, but the birds chirping their chime,
An angelic choir of vibratos
And tenor beaks
humming sweet
to the early tangerine crest of sun
slivers a powerful bar of light over the peaks
to a newly brilliant horizon.
Sweeping the dredges of darkness away
as the stars fade
like coal dust
back again, packed into their cupboard of night
one by one,
lanterns snuffed and sent
into the vibrating blue
as if the whole sky should erupt into fire
azure, hallowed morning pyre
Encircled by the gradient hues
of coral pink and castille yellow
Mediterranean teal
A symphonic
cacophonic
**** of birth
Good Day, Sweet mother earth.
Squeezed through the valleys
canals
allies
every nook and forlorn cranny
kissed with her blissful photonic army
And the infantile creatures cry with glee.
The dewdrops clutch the blades
the tender palasade
of petals
remembering their darkened escapades
slipping tender rain
to feed the dirt,
the lonely detritus
elixirs of the lovely night.
And the world bursts into a veritable
kaleidoscope of life
With a trillion pairs of eyes
accessing the mother dream
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
Throwing themselves beneath the mechanized yard-work goliath,
Salvia flowers bow their heads, heralding my passing
Stooping to remove their violet hats,
Thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by passing metal,
A muddled **** of
half-death, half-birth
Floral genitalia broken into fragments, shards of color
Yet always they bow
Stooping, self-subjugating, submissive, servile, stretched
to their absolute maximum, fibrous tendrils ripping from the bed of grass
Until they flutter gently
Half-mocking their half-living counterparts
Still rooted firmly in the mulchy beds.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
Spanish
La luna es pálida y triste, la luna es exangüe y yerta.
La media luna figúraseme un suave perfil de muerta…
Yo que prefiero a la insigne palidez encarecida
De todas las perlas árabes, la rosa recién abierta,
En un rincón del terruño con el color de la vida,
Adoro esa luna pálida, adoro esa faz de muerta!
Y en el altar de las noches, como una flor encendida
Y ebria de extraños perfumes, mi alma la inciensa rendida.
Yo sé de labios marchitos en la blasfemia y el vino,
Que besan tras de la orgia sus huellas en el camino;
Locos que mueren besando su imagen en lagos yertos…
Porque ella es luz de inocencia, porque a esa luz misteriosa
Alumbran las cosas blancas, se ponen blancas las cosas,
Y hasta las almas más negras toman clarores inciertos!
English
The moon is pallid and sad, the moon is bloodless and cold.
I imagine the half-moon as a profile of the dead…
And beyond the reknowned and praised pallor
Of Arab pearls, I prefer the rose in recent bud.
In a corner of this land with the colors of earth,
I adore this pale moon, I adore this death mask!
And at the altar of the night, like a flower inflamed,
Inebriated by strange perfumes, my soul resigns.
I know of lips withered with blasphemy and wine;
After an **** they kiss her trace in the lane.
Insane ones who die kissing her image in lakes…
Because she is light of innocence, because white things
Illuminate her mysterious light, things taking on white,
And even the blackest souls become uncertainly bright.
3.4k
And our brother, too, the metal shaman
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
We chant, guttural grunts, primal urges
And fierce grinding teeth clenching and screeching
The shaman dances and
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
And we SCREAM shrill
Bare our necks and bring the knife across, ****
A sacrifice to the metal beast
The shaman stares straight up,
Plucks knowledge from the stars
And the blood leaves us
Hair turns grey
Daily exploits lost in deepening wrinkles
The macabre ritual culminates...
The Shaman, unappeased
Laughs like Hyena, cackling
REACHES UP AND PLUCKS KNOWLEDGE FROM THE STARS!
The existential cacophony diminishes
Din dimming
Beast is empty
Bits flow like blood
Ones and zeros in a jumbled pool
The shaman delivers
The family sits around the glowing box
A tribe in an ancient ritual
Flip the switch, change the channel
The children plucking out their eyes
Little blind Oedipus
Smashing faces through the tube
To the life on the other side
Celebrities, products, and reality shows
Forget thought
Present your mind
To the beast
A cinematic ****
Send Damsels to appease the Minotaur
Change the channel
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
<•>
BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)
•<>•
if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map
where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant
but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones
don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?
the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked
see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap
in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"
eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem
but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori
this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)
jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one
but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings
of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem
but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest
won't that be a fabulous poem!
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
I wrote several years ago, a scrap of paper with wondering thoughts--lost.
Delinquent, ovulating, ***** lovers, ***
devil, **** lies, logic, science
dalliance, omission, legality lost, sultry
does oppression look like sex--yes:
It was forced, it ran it's course
but it still runs, runs runs
silently, but in actuality, loud
quietly, but it prowls, hunting for calamity
a sad reality-- a tragedy
with wicked twists which linger
on my wrists, hips and thighs
charred with scars and lies,
I lied: with my thighs
when i let you in, it wasn't a sin
but a lesson I learned, as a girl
and education I didn't earn
--but I sure paid for
no cause for concern
but I find it discerning, sick
and disturbing--you seek dolls
so fine, glossed pretty pink lips
that shine, lips like mine
but there is no crime,
put a price on a doll
and say she's worth a dime.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Hold your breath, girl.
Don't feel.
As he places his shallow love inside of you
Every breath feels like a brick
Pressed against your stomach
Collapsing the walls of your lungs
Until you feel yourself gagging.
Let him talk to you
But your words have become rather expensive
As he plays with your hair
As he touches your waist
As you turn away
Because his fingers cannot feel the rivets in your rib bones.
Your eating disorder makes casual *** a little harder
As does your history with assault.
Sometimes, your PTSD and bulimia want to have an ****
They are the extra lovers you never invited
But as you mount on top of him
Trying to make him forget he doesn't love you
And that you don't love him
It seems they are whispering in your ear
*Why would any man want to **** you?*
He's all you have.
Stop pretending to be good enough.
Try to let these thoughts slip out of your mind
As you slip out of your clothes
Shedding your snake skin.
You kneel there now
His eyes are resting on each inch of your body
But your skin begins to crawl
Your heart begins to shake
You unravel before him
Every end of you is fraying
And he doesn't even know.
What happened to never doing this again?
What happened to getting over it?
Promiscuity smells like stale cigarettes and ***
In the back of a car
With an older man.
Promiscuity tastes like an empty transparent bottle
You can see through it like everyone sees through you.
Like ice cubes
On your fire slinging tongue
From that shot of whiskey a few minutes ago.
How many minutes ago?
Two hours ago.
Yesterday.
Wake up, girl
Detach
Stop holding on to the shards of glass
That break the delicate flesh
On your fingertips.
Put on a mask
Don't let him know you're dead inside.
Your job here is to
Make him believe you're still alive.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Nearing great compost pile,
that steamy heap,
insatiable hunger hits guts.
And I know fortitude for journey
is contained in wealth of
centipedes, predatory mites,
rove beetles, ants,
nematodes, protozoa,
and **** of wriggly worms.
Virgil waits for me, as he did Dante.
He takes form of a sowbug,
but with whole of worldly wisdom.
Shows me circles to which I will fall:
organic residues,
primary consumers,
secondary consumers
and further tertiary consumers.
An ancient pyramid decompositional
processes the scaling down
before the rising up. Each eating
excrement of another before them.
One I become with slugs and snails.
Invertebrates shred meat from bone.
Flies make airborne my bacteria,
carrying me off to feed birth of
future fungi.
I am reborn over and over.
Never more have I known
anything more Godly.
Intestinal juices of earth, enzymes
and other fermentation
taking me down,
pushing me out,
transforming trash of my existence
back to Eden.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
God is happiness and happiness is God to me.
Surgeon General, Pope and Dali Llama all agree,
And everyone is searching for the blessed trinity.
So eat and drink and **** and when we die, we'll see.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 12:55 AM UTC
WARNING
*Extreme use of profanities
and Gods engaged in an **** of lust
Apology in advance for any offence caused*
SL
At Freyja's Table
******* Gods everywhere
******* here
And ******* there
They ******* **** and ******* ****
Some ******* clean
Some ******* muck
They **** in heaven
And in **** in hell
Cupids got them
under his ******* spell
With ******* arrows
in their ******* hearts
******* priests
******* tarts
******* freaky super powers
******* torrential golden showers
The ******* sparks
******* fly
******* ****** in their eyes
******* Eris causing troubles
******* Bacchus blowing bubbles
******* Sif is ******* Thor
More and more
On the ******* floor
******* Gods everywhere
Tied up with their golden hair
Freyja clears her ******* table
Grabs any God that she's able
And ***** and *****
And licks and *****
******* breathless
Who ******* cares
******* Gods are everywhere
Discarded robes
that lay beneath
******* horns
and clenching teeth
They ******* ***
They ******* squirt
They *** again
Until they hurt
Steaming bodies
Sweaty hair
******* Gods are everywhere
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC