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"sexualisation" poems
I remember that Day when we sat (side by side) On those Stairs (Waiting for our Train) And you bought us Miso Soup (It tasted like Tears) The Sun hit my legs (With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia) Covering them, bathing them. glorifying. The traffic was the push and pull (To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising) Of waves. Harsh, solid, mechanical waves (Full of the force of Human Atrocity) Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet (With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation) I thought I was eating the sea. (I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire) The Snow-flakes (Fish-flakes) Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup (A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure) And they swam around and around, Hiding (Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?) If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself (Floating, Filleted) Amongst those Ribbons of Sea **** With each Salty slurp (That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat) I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth (Drowning me in Poison; Poisson) I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea (In a Polystyrene Cup) The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air (Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru") Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate (In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive) We didn't finish the Miso Soup; It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.
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Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Miso Soup.
I remember that Day when we sat (side by side) On those Stairs (Waiting for our Train) And you bought us Miso Soup (It tasted like Tears) The Sun hit my legs (With all the force of sepia toned Nostalgia) Covering them, bathing them. glorifying. The traffic was the push and pull (To and fro, magnetising, Synchronising) Of waves. Harsh, solid, mechanical waves (Full of the force of Human Atrocity) Japanese Culture was "in" and everything was "kawaii" and sweet (With the underlying disturbance of Sexualisation - *** takes pride of place in our Civilisation) I thought I was eating the sea. (I could see the tiny fish Nibbling us that time we went snorkelling. We saw a Sting Ray that reminded us of Steve Irwin: Danger; Barbed Wire) The Snow-flakes (Fish-flakes) Swirling in the snow globe of my Polystyrene Cup (A new kind of Fish Bowl, A new Exposure) And they swam around and around, Hiding (Cyclical, controlled by Lunar Activity. Natural?) If I stared hard enough I would, no, could see myself (Floating, Filleted) Amongst those Ribbons of Sea **** With each Salty slurp (That tasted of you, of the bitter Crust that Crowns your body in Heat) I expected saltier Bladders to Burst in my Mouth (Drowning me in Poison; Poisson) I imagined the Japanese fisherman Catching Sun-Warmed Sea (In a Polystyrene Cup) The thousands of fish, tiny eyes that Blink, tiny gills that Palpitate - Suffocating in Air (Aboard his boat, that Famed boat: "Daigo Fukuryu Maru") Harvesting Silken Strands of Sea **** that Clung to its Crate (In the same way that his Wife's Freshly washed Hair Twines about her Body. Static, Electric, Alive) We didn't finish the Miso Soup; It tasted too much of the Tears that I Cried.
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39
when i heard about it, when i heard of “free art:” i thought of free bread and wine, and celtic sirens, i laughed though... you made the earth so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts. when art became free we tried to moralise drinking wine (as a portent of richness) and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion), i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.” the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into a hope of kings and village kindred elders, but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus, caged the gypsy have i? i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation, i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess, well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists; making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity, it just became a realism of a struggled acting - i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed. i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality, and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the **** meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet, realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams, perfected in thailand... of all places; that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal, moving further east of mecca than riyadh and the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
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Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
the celtic girls became odysseus’ sirens / the age of baphomet
when i heard about it, when i heard of “free art:” i thought of free bread and wine, and celtic sirens, i laughed though... you made the earth so ******* boring we all wanted to become astronauts. when art became free we tried to moralise drinking wine (as a portent of richness) and eating bread (as a portent of the russian revulsion), i bought my art.. and waited for the ones who discouraged it complaining buying their bread “well fed.” the celtic sirens hung on though, singing softer and softer but more prone to the acid tongues dragging the democrats into a hope of kings and village kindred elders, but i still didn’t hope for free artistry that was akin to circus, caged the gypsy have i? i have, but i did not warrant free food or free aquas of variation, i simplified freeing the demands with the demands freed into excess, well... if i were kingly i’d still have provided free bread and wine rather than music and the curbing the excesses of lyricists; making music free just discouraged all originality, all creativity, it just became a realism of a struggled acting - i feel cheated having missed the antics of britannia in the 1960's and '70's like it was greek and roman without the epileptics of watching a documentary on trans-sexualisation of brazilians and ******** disco to gag on an excess of flashy lights just to sell lipstick... and have these quasi-epileptic shivers without having an opposing opinion to counter the freely stated & fluxed. i guess my convulsions were due to the fact that the men didn’t call it either homosexuality nor trans-sexuality, and that i was actually looking at two dodos talking, meaning i was seeing the extinction of the human race through the **** meaning i was watching the knights templar idol, baphomet, realised 2000 years after the crucifixion in that crown of thorn dreams, perfected in thailand... of all places; that actually beats the identification of ibn saud as the dajjal, moving further east of mecca than riyadh and the assassination attempt within the framework of muhammad’s hadith of ‘no entry’ into mecca by the dajjal.
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38
At Gordon Hill I climbed aboard A lazy day For being bored Enfield sweltered Beneath the sun Then I saw her She looked like fun Her torn blue jeans Showed sun-brown thigh As Hertfordshire Slipped quickly by An English miss Of that no doubt My usual type Is short and stout But on that train Just her and I Her slender form Did keep my eye Both Welwyn bound A summer's day I fantasised Us in the hay That kept the shade Of her fair hair They put her there For me to stare A poster girl She was you see On British Rail's Class Three One Three.
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Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC
The Sexualisation of a British Rail Class 313
.                      great!    the spelling of an "offensive" word is more distressing to you than a sexualisation of a naked body...    page 3 of the sun comes nowhere the censor of the word f%%%; good boy, good girl,    make sure language is ***** and that actual ***** is considered casual-kojak -     for the paedo-ring-leaders; you try speaking the truth, i'll deny it...         first you apply the decipher in writing language...    and attempt to treat your invented disease that's dyslexia.... housewife quacks wishing for a hard-on; start talking to nuns and baking cakes... or do a downer!    go transgender!   the nag hammadi "library" will surely guide you down the "righetous" path; the pronouns belong to me... if "she" can make me believe "she's" a woman, i will call "him" a she; d'uh, coming from a mouth that once said: i'd **** anything that moves, if a "she" can fool a man... what's the problem? are people forgetting that, to clarify pronouns, you sometimes have to grate some article usage? there's a indefinite "pronoun" that fools hetero.... but there's also the definite "pronoun" the hetero man identifies with, and owns twice-over.... if a hetero man doesn't think about ******* you, sorry... you're like a frankenstein's monster experiment gone wrong... or more like igor's monster... the rich can have it all... the best you can do is internalise the dysphoria, and wish for a lucky lottery ticket, or rich grandparents to perfect the transition, that i might sexually consider you as a woman... otherwise? let's just say, that when western society closed its mental asylums, it created its societies in asylums, where everyone could be considered mentally ill.
0
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
**** & f%%%
.                      great!    the spelling of an "offensive" word is more distressing to you than a sexualisation of a naked body...    page 3 of the sun comes nowhere the censor of the word f%%%; good boy, good girl,    make sure language is ***** and that actual ***** is considered casual-kojak -     for the paedo-ring-leaders; you try speaking the truth, i'll deny it...         first you apply the decipher in writing language...    and attempt to treat your invented disease that's dyslexia.... housewife quacks wishing for a hard-on; start talking to nuns and baking cakes... or do a downer!    go transgender!   the nag hammadi "library" will surely guide you down the "righetous" path; the pronouns belong to me... if "she" can make me believe "she's" a woman, i will call "him" a she; d'uh, coming from a mouth that once said: i'd **** anything that moves, if a "she" can fool a man... what's the problem? are people forgetting that, to clarify pronouns, you sometimes have to grate some article usage? there's a indefinite "pronoun" that fools hetero.... but there's also the definite "pronoun" the hetero man identifies with, and owns twice-over.... if a hetero man doesn't think about ******* you, sorry... you're like a frankenstein's monster experiment gone wrong... or more like igor's monster... the rich can have it all... the best you can do is internalise the dysphoria, and wish for a lucky lottery ticket, or rich grandparents to perfect the transition, that i might sexually consider you as a woman... otherwise? let's just say, that when western society closed its mental asylums, it created its societies in asylums, where everyone could be considered mentally ill.
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