NEWSFLASH: Man, 78, Self-Rebrands as Teenage Femme Bombshell — Nation Loses Grip on Timeline:
EXPOSÉ | The Chrysalis Suite: How One Man’s Transition Shook the Foundations of Memorial General Hospital
Byline: by C. Vallée, Staff Writer for The Subcutaneous Ledger

FROM NURSING HOME TO NIGHTCLUB Parallel reports suggest the revolution began earlier than suspected, when an unnamed 78-year-old male nursing home resident unveiled a Y2K-era makeover and soft-launched as a seventeen year old femme via Instagram named ******. “He looked like the ghost of a prom I never attended,” said one Gen Z influencer. “My sense of time and gender hasn’t recovered.”
Now dubbed bio-camp insurgency by cultural theorists, this movement collapses diagnosis into drag, anatomy into allegory. “Clinical procedure is now performance art,” said Dr. Noor El-Amine, professor of somatic aesthetics at RISD Med.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS:
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
Anatomy Textbooks Recalled Nationwide
Mascara-Smeared Manifestos Appear in Hospital Chapels

Editor’s Note: Panic
ALERT LEVEL Code Cherry: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
In another story that has jolted the local medical community and sent ripples through the hospital’s institutional crust, 67-year-old unnamed man, once a retiree from Radiology with two hip replacements and a fondness for crossword puzzles, emerged last Tuesday reintroduced as Valentina D., cloaked in satin, grace, and unapologetic glamour.

Scrubs Abandoned, Mascara Weaponized — Security Reviews Footage: Surveillance records now archived under “mystic anomalies” show Walter — now Valentina — vanishing into the women’s locker room only to reappear hours later in full regalia: tulle, rhinestones, and a defiant contoured cheekbone. She made her promenade down the East Wing with the resolve of a pageant queen and the mystique of an oracle. Eyewitnesses confirm that several seasoned nurses dropped their clipboards.
What began as a low-key wellness check-up became something closer to myth.

EYEWITNESS: “She Glowed Like the Exit Sign,” says Janitor on Break
Oscar F., night janitor and amateur astrologer, describes the event as “radiant… like an omen or the ****** of a rapture dream.” He adds, “She didn’t walk. She hovered. She beamed. I ain’t been right since.”

HEADS UP: Orthopedics Floor Now Runway — Proceed with Caution
Orthopedics, once home to bedpans and broken pelvises, has reportedly been rebranded as “Ward 9¾,” a liminal space where gender norms go missing and gowns turn to trains. Staff have been advised not to interrupt the newly christened “transitory pageants,” now scheduled every full moon.

EXCLUSIVE: Hospital Insider Leaks Tiara Protocol Draft
A confidential memo outlines a now-shelved set of procedures titled “Operation Glamour Reclamation,” suggesting staff be trained in both trauma care and ballroom etiquette. The document refers to “emergent expressions of divine femininity” and encourages clinicians to “honor shimmer as a legitimate symptom.”

DECONSTRUCTED: Body, Binary, and Other Disposables
Medical ethicists and performance theorists have begun swarming Memorial General, calling the incident “a sacred deconstruction.” Dr. Nina Vega of Queer Phenomena Institute claims, “This isn’t just a personal transition — it’s a metaphysical jailbreak. The patient has successfully trespassed the clinic’s ontology.”
The hospital has yet to issue a formal statement, though a new sign now hangs in the atrium: “BE ADVISED: GENDER MAY NOT BE STABILIZED IN THIS AREA.”

Metro Dispatch — Boston, MA, 3:03 AM
Later that day in an act described by one witness as “the most glamorous Code Red I’ve ever seen,” a third-year medical student at Brightmore University Hospital stunned staff, bloggers, and bioethicists alike after reportedly removing their own genitalia in a hospital restroom and re-emerging 27 minutes later in a backless red sequined dress, a rhinestone tiara, and crystal-strap Jimmy Choo Bings.
Security footage shows the student — formerly known as Stanley G. — strutting down the corridor trailing blood and glitter, hips oscillating somewhere between agony and glamour.
“I thought someone had been attacked,” said orderly Mason Liu. “But then she walked out like she’d just invented gender and fashion in the same breath. I almost saluted.” A faint scent of rosewater and antiseptic lingered.
The hospital declined to comment on whether disciplinary action would be taken. Unofficial sources say a new emergency protocol is being drafted under the title “Code Cherry.”

QUOTE OF THE HOUR
“My body was a curriculum. Now it’s a manifesto.” — She tells stunned cardiology staff, tiara tilted. And when asked by reporters what drove him to it? He smiled through smeared mascara, shook his hips — still glistening with gauze, blood, and rebellion — and said: “I just wanted to feel cute.”
The line has since trended across platforms, emblazoned on tank tops, titanium scalpels, and protest placards across five continents.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
New Protocol “Code Cherry” Goes into Effect Across Multiple Wards
Slay-or-Suture” TikTok Challenge Overtakes Academic Med Tok
Anatomy Textbooks Pulled Pending Emergency Revision: “The Body May No Longer Be Binary”

BREAKING: Elderly Man Reincarnates into Viral Ingénue — Science, Ethics, and TikTok Implode ALERT LEVEL: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
Officials confirm the hospital is reviewing footage under a new emergency classification: “Code Cherry.” A leaked draft of the “Tiara Protocol” is currently circulating on MedTok, where footage of the transformation has sparked the #SlayOrSutureChallenge — now banned in six countries.
A spokesperson for Brightmore declined to comment, citing an ongoing review of hospital guidelines on gender autonomy and aesthetic insurgency. Meanwhile, medical schools across the country are reconsidering curricular materials in light of recent anatomical reinterpretations. As one faculty statement read: “The body may no longer be binary. We’re… reassessing.”

Lady Gaga… just follow the glitter trail. The revolution wears heels now — try to keep up, *******.

Executive Summary:
This document outlines the unprecedented destabilization of national, medical, and moral order catalyzed by the Brightmore Event, now dubbed Operation: Crimson Rebirth. The subject — hereafter referred to as “Entity Cuterina” — has initiated a high-speed cultural insurgency rooted in glamour-fueled gender mutiny, rendering all traditional ideological safeguards inert.

Post-Binary Aesthetic Weaponization (PBAW).
Primary Concerns:
Cultural Reach: Within 18 hours of the incident, #ICU Glamour surpassed national defense hashtags in digital engagement. TikTok influencers have begun performing simulated scalpeless rebirths to the tune of “Like a Prayer.”

Architectural Contagion: Hospital bathrooms — once strongholds of fluorescent despair — have begun emitting a low hum of possibility. Early reports indicate patients refusing to return to gendered wings unless “a proper lighting palette is installed.”

Moral Collapse of Youth: Gen Z+ have adopted red sequined gowns as daily wear. Reports abound of high school students submitting term papers as fragrance.

Doctrinal Schisms: Several prominent clergy members have defected to the movement, performing rites in press-on nails and singing updated verses of “How Great Thou Art” in full falsetto.

Institute Recommendations: Tactical Aesthetic Suppression Immediately requisition all remaining stocks of matte foundation and khaki. Subdue sparkle with “neutral-tone patriotism” campaigns.

Counter-Incantation Protocols Begin circulation of phrase “Respect the Binary. Revere the Clipboard.” Secure trademark rights to “Feeling cute is not a strategy.”

Gender Neutrality Containment Zones (GNCZs) Establish federally monitored “no-pronoun safe rooms” equipped with fluorescent lighting, Muzak, and damp beige chairs.

Emergency Moral Consultants Rehire Jordan Peterson in holographic format to whisper cautionary parables into hospital vents.

Incident Fallout:
AMA board chair Dr. Felix Grunberg reportedly sighted sobbing into a bedazzled otoscope.
Four interns from the think tank’s Youth Policy Unit have defected — citing “irreversible shimmer awakening.” They left a note reading: “My body is a mood board, not your metric.”
One analyst was discovered lip-syncing policy drafts in the breakroom mirror, now presumed radicalized.

The National Spasm: Monitoring the Margins Since the Enlightenment Got Weird
…..News Flash

The Brightmore Incident has made it clear that we were unprepared for ontological improvisation in heels. Institutional binaries are dissolving in real time, and no amount of comb-over rationalism can contain the spread.
We hereby request an emergency 500 million USD “Glitter Defense Fund” to research matte-resistant ideology, reinforce conservative bathroom architecture, and develop voice-based gender verification drones.
“Time is running out while normalcy is on life support. In the meantime, she’s still dancing.”

Mad Donna - Her Catechism:
She Offered Her Throat to a Choir of Teeth. A Mirror of Her Mythology: At once she is the elevation towards God and the descent towards Satan. The Madonna is an archetype of sacred suffering, and Mad Donna when sanctity snaps - when the divine mother claws through her own iconography, lipstick smeared over relics, nails chipped from clawing open heaven.

Prologue: The Peril of Invitation - Before You Open This Sacred Poem: They told me not to read it. Said ink like these stains deeper than blood. That once the words root themselves in you, you'll speak truths no one asked to hear and dream in languages that leave scorch marks. This is not scripture for saints. It won't cleanse you. It won't forgive you. It will break you open in all the places you were told to keep.

Genesis: In the beginning, there was want. And the want took form, and the form bled. She sings in languages no god dares answer, and every note is a shudder beneath my ribs. I bring her offerings - spit, shame, and a locket full of desire.

Mad Donnas Ritual Invocation: By salt and silence, I summon The One Who Named Me. By collar and covenant, by whip and holy wand I beckon The Lawful ****. By red light and gaze unbroken, I call The Witness. By blade and bloom, I conjure rosaries, stilettos and fish net *****, hungry blow jobs in back-alley boulevards with smeared lipstick and fog. I invoke Thee by ink, by bruise, by balm - By mouth and fractured moan, by leather rhythm and breath held taut, I summon The Bound Pulse. By absence aged to ache, I summon The One Who Made Me Wait. By gloves of ghost and reverence, I call The Cold Benediction. By kiss like smoke, I call The Saint of Strikes in tongues of want, and blotched mascara running and moaned in calling chants.
Take this throat I offer - willing. Take this want I carry - not to cage, but to worship.

She doesn't kneel because she's weak. She kneels because gravity calls her name. Each time she descends, the world adjusts its axis. She is the hymn they tried to censor from the psalms. She comes unlabeled, not divine, not ****** a mother-sized glitch in the system all blush and fury, blood in her breath - birthmark shaped like a *******, to sanctity, to every stained glass lie.

She wakes with velvet bruises forming constellations, maps only she can read. Liturgy inked across inner thighs, sung in whispers, in commands, in moans. Not silence - but obedience that chooses itself. She smiles bleeding saying "look" and she burns like ants on fire. Her gospel is submission scratched into stained porcelain bent bone and joint. She wears her ribbons like relics - desires of twilight like a crucifix. She is every Magdalene they redacted, every witch they kissed before the burning. She bends; it is not for mercy. It is ritual. It is a structure built from ache. It is salt on the tongue like sacrament.

Revelation: "Take me." She says in revelation. "Use me." Licking the floor in celebration. For every **** a psalm. Every kiss and **** a plea. Every leaking vein the Amen she never says out loud. She offers her wrists. Her mouth. Her throat. Her **** feet *** and wagging tongue not in shame, but as altar. She lets them write their names across her spine in *** spit and blood.

She doesn't look away remembering. Submission isn't collapsed but construction with the lights turned off. It's trust. It's theater. “It’s her hips shaped like a whispered prayer, and her feet curled like roots gripping the edge of longing.
Sometimes they cry when it's over. She doesn't. She gathers the sobs like souvenirs. She leaves the room and is grateful for the pleasures of disgrace.

They called her holy. They called her horror. She calls it catharsis. We call her Mad Donna. And none of us walked away untouched.
She kneels having chosen the blade and whip. And will not rise until every blood drenched tease has marked her hunger.
She made a chapel out of corsets and teeth; stained glass and balconies built from used condoms and a confession of shame then stretched her legs like she just got home.

I asked where the altar was, she pointed to her mouth and said "good - start here." She prayed in gags shaped like gurgles, groans and weeping. She taught me how to give it to her hard, so loud even guilt had to shut up.

Mad Donna - The Calling Cracked and Craving:
The Thirteen Apostles:

1. Saint Dom - The One Who Named Her and didn't ask. He gave her a name that tasted like crazy and stayed like smoke. She wore it. Choked on it. Cumed with it still in her mouth. Her altar - a rusty stage. Her relics - broken mirrors and bitten tongues. Her worshippers - girls with fists in their pockets and men who mistake shame for devotion. "Blessed are the starved, for they shall feast on truth and call it ruin."

2. Saint Lecher - The One with the Collar Leather and laws. He said bow like a vow. She knelt - not because she had to, but because he knew what to do with silence. Her altar - a bathtub full of spoiled perfume. Her relics - wilted garters, corsets stiff with tears. Her congregation - the lovers who stayed too long and forgot how to leave. "Blessed be the discarded, for even ghosts need chapels."

3. Saint Voyer - The One with the Camera, He never touched her. He only watched. Red light. Open legs. He said, "hold still" and she didn't blink for hours. Her altar - a porcelain statue of herself. Her relics - hollowed eyed dolls with scattered limbs. Her followers - mannequins baptized in mothballs and mildew. "Blessed are the virgins, not as purity, but as preservation for rot, for they wither and inherit spiders who build cities in their dust.

4. Saint Sadist - The Knife in the Chapel He carved scripture into her hips with blade's kiss. Every cut was a question. Every scar answered "yes." She didn't bleed. She bloomed. Her altar - a mattress on the floor, threadbare, thrumming. Her relics - laces undone, knuckles kissed raw. Her worshippers - those who learn to love through ache - not to be broken, but to feel themselves change. "Blessed be the bruise where the body remembers and the soul does not flinch."

5. Saint Backwards- The Quiet Mouth Never spoke. Only wrote on mirrors with breath. She read her gospel backward and came forward in tears. Her altar - a padded cell, lined with secrets. Her relics - locked diaries, bitten lips and static. Her followers - the ones who learned that the loudest thing in the world is the thought you never say out loud. "Blessed are the silenced - for they will echo longest."

6.Saint Marks - The One Who Left Marks Fingers dipped in spit, and lust. She wore bruises like confession. Her ribs recited poetry long after he left. Her altar - the sticky floor of confession booths and shadowed basements. Her relics - crumpled prayers on cocktail napkins. Her devotees - the lost girls, the late-night prophets, the ones who preach with lipstick half-smeared and fists still bleeding. "Blessed are the wrecked, for they see God - where others look away."

7. Saint ******* Girl - The Mirror-Twin Looked just like her. Kissed like a dare. She fingered herself through her and forgot which soul was whose. Her altar - a velvet-lined pillbox. Her relics - syringes, stilettos, poison-tipped prayers. Her faithful - the ones who tasted bitterness and called it salvation. "Blessed be the viper for she teaches the hand to tremble before it touches."

8. Saint Flagellation - The One with the Belt and no questions. No safe words. Just rhythm with writhing and something holy in the ache. She thought Opus Dei. Her altar - a locked cabinet of fingerbones and names scratched out. Her relics: faded obituaries, collarbones, forgotten lullabies. Her mourners - everyone who loved something that never loved back. "Blessed are the brittle for they remember how to break without bending."

9. Saint Hard to Get - The One Who Made Her Wait Hours. Days. Forever. She begged once. Then never again. When he finally arrived, she licked the floor clean, working him up. Her altar - a throne of side-gazes and unsent texts. Her relics - unmatched earrings, scorched Valentine cards, one-liners honed like daggers. Her worshippers - just survivors who lit the match and walked away. "Blessed are the scorned, for they will outlive your myths."

10. Saint Hygiene - The One with the Gloves Touchless. Sterile. Surgical. Reverent. He disassembled her with perversions and called it love. Her altar - a mattress that smelled like miracles and musk. Her relics - polaroids, fever-dream verses, glitter in unspeakable places. Her pilgrims - the ones who mistook sweat for baptism and danced anyway. "Blessed are the burning, for they will taste God in their own skin."

11. Saint Cold Shoulder - The One Who Didn't Stay He kissed her like a promise. Left like a thief. She kept the saliva mixed with his filth under her tongue and between her legs. Her altar - a single chair in a locked room. Her relics - half-erased poems and breaths held too long. Her flock - those who never felt safe in the light but followed her anyway. "Blessed are the dim for they are never blinded."

12. Saint Sadist - The One Who Named Pain "Prayer" He struck with a black strap and waited for the amen. She never gave it. She gave more instead. Her altar - the back step of a locked house. Her relics - old voicemail passwords, blankets that still smell like someone who left. Her faithful - those who bear the weight and never drop it. "Blessed are the stayers, for they know what it costs and pay it anyway."

13. Saint *** Slave - The One She Made Herself The last and only. Built from shards and wounds, stitched with tears. She touched herself like testimony. She whispered, "Take me, own me. "I live in the basement of your mind" Her altar - Stained **** magazines. Her relics - burnt joints and a mottled yellow soiled mattress. Her faithful - those who wait in line stroking themselves. "Blessed is she, the last saint because she never needed to be first. She ends the line but never ends the love.

Epilogue: After the Last Page Is Turned, I read it. And it read me, too - line by line, bone by bone. The ink didn't stain. It was rewritten. I came to the end thinking I'd be wiser. Instead, I felt stranger than ever. Stripped of certainty. Heavy with knowing. They warned it would mark me. They didn't say it would leave me longing for more. Now, when I speak, the truth hums like static beneath every syllable. When I dream, the words still whisper - not finished, not finished…And neither am I.

It's a terrible thing,
I know a beautiful young woman who harms herself with a razor.

Butter and toast.
It's a terrible thing.

We kiss a lot as she bleeds.
And yes, oh yes,
It's a terrible thing.

Blood flows down her breast onto the soft curves of her ivory torso
To mix with my sweat and raw kisses.
It's a terrible thing.
The white marble goddess arches towards my mouth
Stone wheels sharpen the blade.
Her lips - red stains.
It's a terrible thing.

Blood in spiderwebbed rivulets fall.
She burns a smile like talons into my skull.
I'm bought and sold in the house of a tortured Venus.
Alley of torment and ecstasy.
Dracula licks her jewel box glitter and drinks her till whiskey blind.
A ******* mad hatter.
It's a terrible thing.

Please stop, I say heavy with longing.
Which drives her on as one wound begets another.
In this laboratory of sanguine obsession.
My voice - musical bones like xylophone tones.
And oh My God.
This filler that cleaves to emptiness.
This finger of the void - black angels.
Her grin upon me like the Ta in ******.
A merchant of desire whom I love darkly.
This ponderous monk black night of red children falling from mother.
To be savored.
I dive into her red.
My mouth wild cherries and rushing fire.
I am dragon's teeth and tongue lapping.
All cleavers and kisses.

She smiles spreading in a bed of red gauze.
We are good people.
And oh yes, my sweet.
It's a terrible thing.

Needled fingered hematologists prepare our dinner. Her name, Mercy, all body candy, tattooed with a snake ****. Her ******* pierced with rose paved sparkles and ******* stabbed with bat shaped studs. Nurses sharpen knives while quack doctors tend to little plastic dolls and blood bathers with crossed femurs in hospital beds where they are cultivated as condiments. Between the umbilicus of limbo, and the theater of cruelty the rational world remains a derelict void. Welcome are hallucinations that abolish reason, that give meaning to blood shot gazing eyes beyond the limits of sanity, where madness cannot be opposed in a world of tug a war monsters and gods. Lyrical voices of demons shoot through Mercy's nerve membranes, while a marching army of squat shadows move like flames in a vacant lot of burning violets. Monsters groan. A snake head eats its own tail in graves of scattered voices and speechless tongues. Arteries pulse vermillion, naked and wanton waiting to be pierced for sanity's release in a lyric of dread's desire. A tidal force lifts a dirigible from hell in a fountain of blood while Jesus has a cheeseburger moonstruck in torn *******. A spreading bride dissolves hoop-armed around a formless shadow hallucinating her beloved killers foot stones kiss. Mercy Kneels on the Dias subserviently. She is sumptuous and a willing betrothal in a gauzy white gown. Happily, headed for death, she disrobes and centers herself on the long knotty table spreading wide smiling, as if a performing dancer, a naked contortionist in a shadow that flickers. Her knees bent to her chest, ******* heaving, her red rose toes pointed, feet arched. She is ready for the final churning and dispatch. Vampires with moonish eyes crouch on all fours like ancient bushman with black wings like hovering capes to eat her with little teasing bites and licks before kissing hisses and insinuating their bifurcated tongues followed by needling punctures that look like spider holes with reddish volcanic mounds and a leaking web of blood rivulets on her pink primrose pudenda "blood on a sugar cube" mouths, feeding mouths, feeding mouths, licking each other's claret tongues mixed with foot kissing adorations and pinkish toes red blooms and  mad mumblings about the grace of Satan while burning black sabbath candles and incense, uncrossing themselves in cosmic Goetic rituals during devotional masturbations and copulations to give thanks and pay homage for fear that their god would take their girl away, their lovely girl food dressed in hemoglobin crystals, their sweet bleeding lover at fangs point, their peaches and cream, robe of blood and starve them.
Vampires are like the rest of us, hunger always wins, hunger for beauty, hunger for love, attention and shelter, hunger for every ******* thing. The vampires wept tears of gratitude licking torn sumptuous flesh like wild cats on the Savana. The pain of their bites excited Mercy, oh it hurt so, while they filled blood goblets of her, weeping and tumbling downwards in her honeymoon crypt like a spooling galaxy as they ate her belly, throat, eyes, and **** with their switchblade kisses. Mercy drugged on ketamine pushed passed the unendurable limits past limitless pain, like a burning witch laughing thinking in fractured clouds, and hot *** heaping ******* at the site of her depraved condition before sinking into an impenetrable dark water labyrinth of death. Her lips glossed black, the color of the grave, her hair dyed red and purple, her thighs and belly trussed in white gauze by ladies in waiting. Her areoles scorched and punctured as incense holders. Vampires coalesce, with fangs and ravaging kisses, biting Mercy like wild hyenas with panicked raw mouths of red saliva diamonds. Mercy gushes blood like a red river banquet, chained and strapped, legs stirrup wide, her feet beautifully arched and just so, glistening for fiendish kisses. In a candlelight ritual she is copulated by both sexes and fed upon. Mercy laughs like a loon screaming as she is lapped up by the wicked gift of ravenous tongues. Half devoured she emerges, a blood perfume delirium. Mercy arches upward and writhes in a blistering frenzy. Her eyes glare like a tempest then go vacant in loop tee loops in and out of focus. Her mouth, a red licorice lipstick smudge, gapes like twisted wire and pierced blood-soaked lips. In a ghastly shriek Mercy's belly oozes while the very last of her falters. Mercy surrenders her remains in a last hideous lament. Her hair looks like matted steel wool, her nostrils wet with mucousy brine. Her eyes bulge from their sockets, while a single smoldering finger in flames still burns as if it is a candle. Mercy tumbles downwards like a spooling galaxy as they eat her belly, throat, eyes, *** **** and nibble on her toes while she lays prone on a worn blood-stained porcelain Dias and spreads wide exposing whats left of her innocent bottom and smiling like a bewitched demon.

You can't talk about love without talking about its absence, deceit, desire and perversions.
Despite Justines intention to live a virtuous and moral life
she repeatedly encounters debauched and depraved individuals who demean her in every sense of the word.

Justine is brutally and incessantly violated, yet always eager and docile with big ******* eyes like portals of magic.
Using lunar rituals and oneiric transmissions she masturbates incessantly in alley doorways while imagining being backdoored in a bathtub of oiled men - and time will not take that away.

A queen of pinups and a scape goat without a safe word
She is held hostage by desire interlocking her with a **** vampire
living in a stone-cold chamber who texted pitiful Instagram posts about beautiful scarification, the pleasures of narcissism and beauty that left her always feeling like her own undertaker.

How does it work to protect yourself from yourself in this bitter city of the mind where silver flies, pocked faces and little worthless pennies in knotted dreams hum into the cells of your mottled brain?

Aside from my love of women who own their sexuality and being the spawn of the solar phallus dragon and ***** **** of fire, you know mom and dad, let's face it a lot of people are pent up about ***, so anything illuminating on the subject and its various forms, perspectives, sensual aspects and subculture is nothing but a good thing unless of course you are a die-hard *****.

Broadly speaking marrieds and long-term couples grow bored with each other, and singles very often go without *** or even being touched for extended periods of time. In both cases it ***** and not in a good way. Many singles remain fixated on the idea of finding that special person to alleviate their sense of loneliness and many if not most marrieds remain starved for a bit of novelty and are understandably afraid to transgress for fear of the jealousy and pain of betrayal with the loneliness and insecurity it often brings. Of course, there are some who work hard to disown their sexuality all together as a solution.  I see this as a kind ****** & emotional suicide, a moral masochism if religiously motivated and crime against the self.  There is in fact very few of us who manage to find a way to have it all and have it that way most or all of the time. In other words, the entirety of our society has a baked in structure that creates a sense of pervasive despair about ****** desire, not to mention the immense suffering that comes with loving and not being loved back.

Speaking of moral masochism, I find it ironic that the clergy who are sworn to celibacy and outwardly kowtow to the most rigid repressive codes of behavior have been and remain appalling in their rampant *******.

Perhaps whats left is to be driven into a labyrinth of hermetically sealed shadows that incubate a kind of sensual theater of transgression and taboo where simply everything goes.
Well, this writer has lived in those shadows like many others and consequently decided to explore those dark corners both in relationships, and those interior grottos of self through mental construct phantasmagorias and the language of poetry to spotlight this web of pathogens built into the very scaffolding of our psyches and culture.
As a poet I dont want to mimic the ruling culture. I want poetry to be like good ***, as in novel or intimate or perverse or underground like a creepy girl with a little blood on her pigtails in a fluttering dress with great legs just asking for it.
Poetry in its frail orbit is often only seen through the lens of genteel romance, social justice, of documentary, of collective resistance, or perhaps the propaganda of some other public iconography, a kind of literary imperialism in its lock step with the prevailing dogma trend lines while *** remains oddly off the radar? How could that be with so many barking and yelping genitalia, talk about repression.
Is the poetic form collapsing like a drooping mouth from too much pretentious baroque gentility in mildewed assure skies and verdant fields? Has Pandora been dethroned, and stripped of her gloomy yet torrid box of troves?
No folks shes under our bed's, in our brains and DNA disturbing us while we try to avoid her primal groans, groans mind you that manifest in the shadows and then erupt into arguments, tears and the rip apart lives.   

The reason I write about *** is I'm in search of a sacred space where language serves the psyche without artifice, and that makes plain the difference between the conservative public conversation and true innerness of the intersectional shadow lands of self towards a better way to live.

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world - The master calls a butterfly".
Richard Bach

He is a boy sleeping against the mosque wall, ******* wet dreaming into a thousand ***** pink and smooth as sea shells.
— William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch

I’ve been reading a lot of poetry for quite a few years and maybe this is just me, as in some quirky bias I suffer, or misapprehension about poetry, but much of what I read doesn’t feel much like poetry at all. Now, one can rightfully argue that poetry can be anything, and that’s okay because if we take a look at poetry’s history what we see is a continuum of thesis and antithesis, flagging us who read the stuff that anything goes. So where does that leave us? I might argue that since there are so many distinct kinds of poems that a definition alludes us all together and when we hear the noun p o e t r y, we can only assign the familiar poetic shape as its definitive territory, meaning a few words in a line that are stacked up on each other, which we generally think of as verse with multiplied stacks fulfilling our expectation of poem. I’m thinking if we want to go with that poetry digresses to a linguistic charmless flat land characteristic of prose, relative to at least some of the poetic writing that is highly lyrical, sonically potent, novel, intonated, linguistically muscular, and dynamically connective to the reader. Poetry can take creative liberties that prose customarily does not or cannot take. Poetry may have different linguistic needs like different kinds of English. For example, articles may be absent towards a more concentrated synthesis for phrasing, a lyrical lilt, stream of consciousness boarding on the abstract et al.
Being a poet is born of a feeling that a face may be a liquid surface. That time is malleable, and that there is always something going on in-between the lines gleaned from inexplicable moments of inner disjuncture or a hesitating breath.
Poetry may facilitate that mind may emerge from the concrete objective into the mirrors of the marvelous or uncanny like a burped half avocado and fish head at 2 am in the morning transmuting into a torrent of dormice and angels in delirious avenues of falling stars and looking glasses.
Poetry may address intersectional dimensionality populated by visions and voices of primordial undercurrents, that stories may not lend themselves to. Poetry may be metalinguistic and a fragment of the inner life both collective and individuated. Poetry may work from the inside out without referencing the temporal, locational, and name it and claim it nouns and pronouns typical of prose. So, here’s the poetry problem. Why is it that 99% of the poetry I read here and places like it remain basically written just like prose, linguistically and sonically vacuous, largely bereft of similes, metaphors and all the other strategic devices that can make poetry progressive, inventive and deeply resonate, except of course that they are stacked and columned giving the appearance of poems?
~~~~~
EXAMPLES OF POEMS THAT CAN BE CALLED POETRY
Ballad in A
BY CATHY PARK HONG
A Kansan plays cards, calls Marshall
a crawdad, that barb lands that rascal a slap;
that Kansan ******* scats,
camps back at caballada ranch.
Hangs kack, ax, and camp hat.
Kansan’s nag mad and rants can’t bask,
can’t bacchanal and garland a lass,
can’t at last brag can crack Law’s *****,
Kansan’s cantata rang at that ramada ranch,
Mañana, Kansan snarls, I’ll have an armada
and thwart Law’s brawn,
slam Law a **** mass war path.
Marshall’s a marksman, maps Kansan’s track,
calm as a shaman, sharp as a hawk,
Says: That dastard Kansan’s had
and gnaws lamb fatback.
At dawn, Marshall stalks that ranch,
packs a gat and blasts Kansan’s ***
and Kansan gasps, blasts back.
A flag ***** at half-mast.~~~~~
Ocean of Earth

BY GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE
TRANSLATED BY RON PADGETT
To G. de Chirico
I have built a house in the middle of the Ocean
Its windows are the rivers flowing from my eyes
Octopi are crawling all over where the walls are
Hear their triple hearts beat and their beaks peck against the windowpanes
House of dampness
House of burning
Season’s fastness
Season singing
The airplanes are laying eggs
Watch out for the dropping of the anchor
Watch out for the shooting black ichor
It would be good if you were to come from the sky
The sky’s honeysuckle is climbing
The earthly octopi are throbbing
And so very many of us have become our own gravediggers
Pale octopi of the chalky waves O octopi with pale beaks
Around the house is this ocean that you know well
And is never still
Translated from the French
Source: Poetry (October 2015)~~~~~

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
BY OCEAN VUONG
i
Tell me it was for the hunger
& nothing less. For hunger is to give
the body what it knows
it cannot keep. That this amber light
whittled down by another war
is all that pins my hand
to your chest.
i
You, drowning
between my arms —
stay.
You, pushing your body
into the river
only to be left
with yourself —
stay.
i
I’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven. How one night, after
backhanding
mother, then taking a chainsaw to the kitchen table, my father went to kneel
in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls.
And so I learned that a man, in ******, was the closest thing
to surrender.
i
Say surrender. Say alabaster. Switchblade.
Honeysuckle. Goldenrod. Say autumn.
Say autumn despite the green
in your eyes. Beauty despite
daylight. Say you’d **** for it. Unbreakable dawn
mounting in your throat.
My thrashing beneath you
like a sparrow stunned
with falling.
i
Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining.
i
I wanted to disappear — so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was still alive. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast cancer ribbon on his keychain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky — to hold every flying & falling at once.
i
Say amen. Say amend.
Say yes. Say yes
anyway.
i
In the shower, sweating under cold water, I scrubbed & scrubbed.
i
In the life before this one, you could tell
two people were in love
because when they drove the pickup
over the bridge, their wings
would grow back just in time.
Some days I am still inside the pickup.
Some days I keep waiting.
i
It’s not too late. Our heads haloed
with gnats & summer too early
to leave any marks.
Your hand under my shirt as static
intensifies on the radio.
Your other hand pointing
your daddy’s revolver
to the sky. Stars falling one
by one in the cross hairs.
This means I won’t be
afraid if we’re already
here. Already more
than skin can hold. That a body
beside a body
must make a field
full of ticking. That your name
is only the sound of clocks
being set back another hour
& morning
finds our clothes
on your mother’s front porch, shed
like week-old lilies.
Source: Poetry (December 2014)
~~~~~
SOMETIMES WE’VE GOT TO READ IT TO KNOW WHAT IT IS.

pre-*******
******
and
everything
you ever wanted to know
about yeast infections

Just kidding
but poems make you feel thoughts

reality collapses
into a paragon of nothing
forming memory
of boundaries like detonating corridors
about primate organization
chemical interventions
and political furors

the mind of earth
forces a mashup
of alternating currents
as the higher sends the temporal
for excursions into whatever the ****
like a dog on a leash

in another clinical metaphysics workshop
for karma farmers
we lick hell's ***
in a greasy crowd with jaundice  
for our own ******* good

i cross dimensions
like an alchie with the shakes
where one reality collapses into another
making me ****** again
in a transfiguration
of canvassing beauty
towards deportment for a slow withering
like the astonished refugee
when shipped to a clumsy place
for shattered senses

with every crown
the gift of life
comes the guillotine

THE SECRET RITUAL:
Irrespective of the wonderful *** you might have with others, or any ideals you may have about who, when, and where to engage sexually, sometimes the *** that you have with yourself gives you something impossible to achieve with another.

To be specific: what I’m speaking of are the internal mental constructs of performative ****** acts that are unrestricted in the imaginative world, and that one would never be able to consider in real time. Those masturbatory shadows of the deep and deeply ****** that few are able to acknowledge about themselves, and certainly remain unwilling to talk about with someone they maybe intimate with, for fear of its destructive impact on the relationship.

A shape of language
for the secrets of the body
for the secrets of the mind
in the flow of matter
physical and etheric
cyber chronicles of ambulated hunger
the cult of the body.

YOUR SEXULITY IS SACRED TO YOU, NOT SACRED FROM YOU:

Obviously moral sensibilities and the limits of temporal life dictate what we may do. We may be imaginative, bizarre, freaky and incredibly *****, but we are not crazy, at least not all of us, yet that doesn’t mean those shadowy ****** denizens of the deep don’t bathe in the great fathoms of our respective subconscious abyss.

My darkest desires
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious.

THE PARAPHILIAS:
“Paraphilia is the experience of intense ****** arousal to atypical objects, situations, fantasies, behaviors, or individuals.”
Current data supports that about one out of every 6 people, irrespective of gender or ****** preference, experience some kind of paraphilia.
Here is a list of paraphilias that is a focus of ****** interest:

Andromimetophilia: Trans men.
Anililagnia: Attraction by young men to older women.
Anthropophagolagnia: ****** and then cannibalizing another person.

Anthropophagy: Ingesting human flesh.
Apotemnophilia: Being an amputee.
Asphyxiophilia: Being asphyxiated or strangled.
Attraction to disability: People with one or more physical disabilities.
Autagonistophilia: Being on stage or on camera.
Autassassinophilia: Being in life-threatening situations.
******* asphyxiation: Self-induced asphyxiation, sometimes to the point of near unconsciousness.
Autogynephilia: ****** arousal of a biological male in response to the image of himself as female.
Auto-haemofetishism: Bleeding oneself (does not involve ingestion of blood). Type of autovampirism. [contradictory]
Autonepiophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an infant.
Autopedophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a child.
Autoplushophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a plush or anthropomorphized animal.
Autovampirism/Vampirism: The image of one’s self in the form of a vampire. Involves ingesting or seeing one’s own blood.
Autozoophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an animal or anthropomorphized animal.
Biastophilia/Raptophilia: ****** a person, possibly consensual **** fantasy.
Capnolagnia: Smoking.
Chremastistophilia: Being robbed or held up.
Chronophilia: Partners of a widely differing chronological age.
*******: Feces; also known as ****, scatophilia or fecophilia.
Coulrophilia: Clowns, jesters, and mimes.
Crurophilia: Legs.
Dacryphilia: Tears or crying.
Diaper fetishism: Diapers; considerable overlap with paraphilic infantilism.
*******: Trees.
Emetophilia: *****.
Eproctophilia: Flatulence.
****** asphyxiation: Asphyxia of oneself or others.
Erotophonophilia: ******, often of strangers (also known as dacnolagnomania).
Exhibitionism: Exposing one’s genitals to unsuspecting and nonconsenting others.
Feederism: Eating, feeding, and weight gain.
Formicophilia: Being crawled on by insects.
Forniphilia: Turning a human being into a piece of furniture.
Frotteurism: Rubbing against a non-consenting person.
Gerontophilia: Elderly people.
Gynandromorphophilia, Gynemimetophilia: Transgender women.
Hematolagnia: Drinking or looking at blood.
Heterophilia: Idealization of heterosexuality and/or people who are “straight-acting”, especially by non-heterosexual people.
Hoplophilia: Firearms, guns.
Hybristophilia: Criminals, particularly those who committed cruel or outrageous crimes.
Infantophilia: ******* with a focus on children less than five years old; a recently suggested term that is not in general use.
Kleptophilia: Stealing; also known as kleptolagnia.
Klismaphilia: Enemas, arousal and enjoyment in receiving, administering, or both.
Lactophilia: Breast milk.
Liquidophilia: Immersing genitals in liquids.
Macrophilia: Giant beings; the imagined growth of beings.
Maschalagnia: Armpits.
Mazophilia: Female *******.
Masochism: Suffering or humiliation; being beaten, bound or otherwise abused.
Maiesiophilia: Pregnant women.
Mechanophilia: Cars or other machines; also “mechaphilia.”
Melolagnia: Music.
Menophilia: *******.
Metrophilia: Poetry.
Microphilia: Very small people or small body parts.
Morphophilia: Particular body shapes or sizes.
Mucophilia: Mucus.
Mysophilia: Dirtiness, soiled or decaying things.
Narratophilia: Obscene words.
Nasophilia: Noses.
Navel fetishism: Navel.
Necrophilia: Corpses.
Objectophilia: Specific inanimate objects.
Oculophilia: Eyes and activities directly relating to and/or involving the eyes. Voyeurism does not meet classification for this term.
Odaxelagnia: Biting or being bitten.
Olfactophilia: Smells and odors emanating from the body, especially the ****** areas (as from breath, *****, feces, flatulence, etc.).
*******: Arousal from having a full bladder and/or wetting oneself, or from seeing someone else experiencing a full bladder and/or wetting themself.
Paraphilic infantilism: Dressing or being treated like a baby, also known as autonepiophilia or “adult baby syndrome”; considerable overlap with diaper fetishism.
Partialism: Specific, non-genital body parts.
*******: Prepubescent children, also spelled paedophilia.
Peodeiktophilia: Exposing one’s *****.
Pedovestism: Dressing like a child.
Podophilia: Feet.
Pictophilia: ******* or ****** art, particularly pictures.
Piquerism: Piercing the flesh of another person, most commonly by stabbing or cutting the body with sharp objects.
Plushophilia: Stuffed toy animals (“plushies”).
Pygophilia: Buttocks.
Salirophilia: Soiling or dirtying others.
****** fetishism: Non-living objects.
****** sadism: Inflicting pain on others.
Shoe fetishism: Shoes, such as high heels.
Somnophilia: Sleeping or unconscious people.
Sophophilia: Learning.
Sthenolagnia: Muscles and displays of strength.
Stigmatophilia: Body piercings and tattoos.
Symphorophilia: Witnessing or staging disasters such as car accidents.

Telephone scatologia: Obscene phone calls, particularly to strangers; also known as telephonicophilia and scatophiliac.
Teratophilia: Deformed or monstrous people. The term is also sometimes used in a more literal sense (from ancient Greek τέρας, teras, meaning monster) for attraction to monstrous mythical and fictional creatures such as werewolves.
Toucherism: Touching an unsuspecting, non-consenting person with the hand.
Toxophilia: Archery.
Transvestic fetishism: Wearing clothes associated with the opposite ***; also known as transvestism.
Transvestophilia: A transvestic ****** partner.
Trichophilia: Hair.
Troilism: Observing one’s partner engaged in ****** activities with another person.
Urolagnia: Urination, particularly in public, on others, and/or being urinated on. Also referred to as “water sports”.
*******: The idea of one person or creature eating or being eaten by another; usually swallowed whole, in one piece; also known as vore.
Voyeurism: Watching others while naked or having ***, generally without their knowledge; also known as scopophilia or scoptophilia.
Wet and messy fetishism: Messy situations, including, but not limited to, being pied, slimed or covered in mud.
*******: Animals.
Zoosadism: Inflicting pain on animals, or seeing animals in pain.
~~~~~
A REAL-LIFE PROFILE OF A WOMAN ACUTELY AWARE OF HER DARK FETISHY SIDE
Primary Fantasy: Dehumanization, objectification. I love the idea of being kidnapped and converted into meat.
(Fantasy obviously!!)
I also enjoy preservation, taxidermy, dollification, weird stuff like that!
Other Fetish Interests:
Hucow
Medical
Lab scenes
Necro
Morgue
Hanging
Lethal injection

MAKE THE UNCONSCIOUS CONSCIOUS:
There is much written in-depth psychology about ****** pathologies caused by repressed or shadowy disowned parts of ourselves and how those neglected forces may determine unwanted fate. Shame and self-deception is not our friend. Know yourself.

Pleasure is so close to ruinous waste
nakedness wrecks decency
degradation feeds the bonfire of hunger
and the wound of desire bleeds away within

leave nothing
but the bleeding edge
ruin me she said.
~
Beyond hearts mastery
hullabaloo crime scenes
like night jungles
of tooth and claw
in corridors of neuron ghosts
while **** licking succubae
*** livid pornographic hieroglyphs
fed by the dreaded
excesses of testosterone
towards some ruined
blood spotted
hanky-panky *******
just to remind me of you
and how it hurt just so
and how you loved me for it
whoever you are.
....
https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/the-secret-***-life-we-keep-from-our-selves-7f227dbc6c4a

I've been reading a lot of nonsense about ****** objectification, like objectification is some kind of moral transgression. It's not, unless you want to indict others and yourself for thought crimes.
The term objectification is unfortunately mistaken as a stand in for ****** exploitation. 
 
 Objectification, for some, makes us feel attractive and desired, that we are beautiful, that we attract love and admiration, that we are recognized for our magnetism by strangers. That's certainly one of the motives for working out, watching the waistline and dressing well. 
For others it is about the understandable resistance of an unwanted approach, gaze, or suggestive body language, and while it may create within us a feeling of resistance, it is inherent in the human drama that has always been a part of us and, of course, these two experiences are not mutually exclusive.
But one thing objectification is not, is ****, manhandling, or ****** exploitation. We are all human beings, irrespective of our gender, ****** preferences or ****** sensibilities, with a commonality of desires for love and passion, and while we need to respect each other, we also don't do ourselves and others any favors by being to distressed or rabid about feeling another's heat for us.
Many of us are a great swooning web that wants to swallow and be swallowed in lust and love in search of a special someone, a kind of pre-objectification, for the purpose of future recognition.
****** OBJECTIFICATION is described as "the act of treating a person solely as an object of ****** desire". Objectification more broadly means treating a person as a commodity or an object, without regard to their personality or dignity:  sometimes referred to as "the zipless ****", a phrase coined by Erica Jong in the book "Fear of Flying". As described by her: -"It is a ****** encounter between strangers that has the swift compression of a dream and is seemingly free of all remorse and guilt. It is absolutely pure, there is no power game and it is free of ulterior motives". It has also been described as the perfect one night stand.
She cumed like a cinematic hissing pillow of flames
 
 The point of confusion is that the concept of objectification is mistaken for exploitation, and while sometimes associated, they are radically distinct from one another. Objectification is a DNA-driven biochemical prime directive to create .
Wetter than an otters pocket
 
****** EXPLOITATION: is a crime, meaning taking ****** advantage of another person without effective consent, and includes, without limitation, causing or attempting to cause the incapacitation of another person in order to gain a ****** advantage over such other person; causing the prostitution, or trafficking of another person; recording, photographing or transmitting identifiable images of private ****** activity or knowingly and intentionally exposing another person to a significant risk of a sexually transmitted infection.
OBJECTIFICATION: 
When we find another attractive, the brain has a tendency to flip out in a kind of eclipse as in a black out, like an electrical short perhaps, causing physical symptoms like heart rate increase, asinine nervous talking, sweaty palms, dry mouth, jumpy stomach, hot flashes, or more broadly speaking in a confused gibberish inspired by a spectacular entrancement of obsessive haywire desire. Objectification is the first door we walk though when we recognize our desire for another.
HYPOTHALMUS: part of the brain plays a masterful role in this, stimulating the production of the *** hormones testosterone and estrogen from the ****** and ovaries While these chemicals are often stereotyped as being "male" and "female," respectively, both play a role in men and women. As it turns out, testosterone increases libido in just about everyone. The effects are less pronounced with estrogen, but some women report being more sexually motivated around the time they ovulate, when estrogen levels are highest, which is why men tend to be more sexually aggressive. Women who are introduced to Testosterone for the purpose of body-building or gender change are often astonished by the huge uptick of libidonous desire.
Eeeeek, I could eat you like cherry pie !!!!!
"According to a team of scientists led by Dr. Helen Fisher at Rutgers, desire is broken down into three categories: lust, attraction, and attachment. Each one of these attributes is characterized by its own set of hormones activated by the brain"
LUST… Is driven primarily by Testosterone and Estrogen
ATTRTACTION… dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin motivate attraction
ATTACHMENT… oxytocin and vasopressin mediate attachment.
LOVE…When combined these three take us from us from pure objectification to the wholly trinity of love. ~~~~~
ARE YOU OBJECTIFYING ME
are you objectifying me?
i can bench 300 lbs. ten times
I'm a rich artist with a graduate degree
sun tanned
good teeth
driving a new BMW six series
with a rag top
big keen blue eyes
like a pretty girl
wavy hair
smooth *****
seven inch *****
nice ***
with the tender heart of a poet 
and a square jaw
want to wine and dine you
always smiling
bay *** kisses
silky tee shirts
Hawaiian 
luau vacations
or is it off to my castle 
in the 
Carpathians
impeccable manners
i smell like lavender coconut butter cream
live in a grand house
on 
beach front property
mucho bucks in the bank
nice as spice
you will never have to worry again
are you objectifying me?
GOOD
because I'm objectifying you
and id rather not hear anymore about it
lets not argue with nature
its like a rock falling
arguing with gravity
all the way down.

https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/******-objectification-the-lie-that-keeps-on-lying-fb79223d016f

Sometimes a poem is a surrogate kiss,
or hug, a transmission of love,
aching desire,
sometimes demonic or angelic
or all of them
in a great swooning web
that wants to swallow and be swallowed

ashamed
with my groaning corpus
but can you smell odor of purple
swimming though the devil's skull
her painted body like a bamboo cage
incensed heart
my fluttering nightingale
with hot eyes
beguiling in a bucolic skirt
toe dancing in cross word puzzles
of enshrined desire's red stain
in a succession of ethers
deliriously famished for life
yet somewhere between
the unborn and the undead
nature's filthy discord
like Icarus reaching the sun
a lewd vampire smeared in crimson droplets and ash
under a funerary cross, shadow-less
and moaning for love
licking a blood axe

women cause wars
by shopping
and my plane
has two right wings

advice
to
William Shatner
don't eat
Mexican Food
before lift-off

I've been watching you
apes head with up-do crochet braids
troglodyte  
noxious slurry of galactic form
terminus *****
fitting into a girdle
into a straight jacket
into a girdle
showing off your chastity belt with thumb screws
that hangs down to the knees
like after birth
and strangles by an ironclad umbilicus contract
yet never pure enough
like peroxide teeth  
a screaming lady without the hot sauce
canary class in a bush of flies

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

slip and slide in the Pidgeon put
already bought your ticket to forget
a diabetes queen dreaming fountains of blood
licking the sugar off a powdered donut
with your flatulent tongue
stretched and hung out like gutted shoes
rolling arctic brown
a breathing hull
cold like a Christians crotch

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

she looks for a penny oracle
in jelly bean *******
with a ponderous faith
of paper house souls hugging abstracts
blinking pig iron eyeballs like snarling dogs
and privates
shaped muscle waisted
that beats itself black and blue
shrieking you touch it you bought it
hook line and sinker
with a sign
marked commitment and of no use  
fire exit only
but dont use the stairs

you're a mental case because you know
if I loved like you
I'd **** myself

happy happy happy is your dreary halo nausea

Is poetry mimicking the ruling culture class or does it touch the chaotic genius only the subconscious can render like anti-themic slanting word music?

Is poetry novel or intimate like a small boy in a fluttering dress or seen through the lens of social justice, of documentary, of collective resistance, or perhaps the propaganda of public iconography, and imperialism in it's lock step with the prevailing dogma trend lines?

Is the poetic form collapsing like a screaming mouth in a mildewed universe of prison-like isolation, Pandora stripped of her consecrated darkness and without her box?  

I'm in search of a sacred space where language serves the psyche without artifice, and pothole parentheticals that make plain the difference between the conservative public conversation and true innerness so that we see through each other like thin water stained cigarette paper and big doll eyes.

plum plunk-ums
no placid Eden
yet as delicate as cigarette paper
always beautiful
but not without a touch of disaster
like a fetching girl with a milky eye
and a cross around her neck
a wearable god
a tiny, tarnished truth trinket
religion's armor
as ancestral glooming lights judgment
hammers guilt
and implores prayers to be saved
in dystopian lore
for priests' sake in temple prostubules
of hanging dark shapes wicked trace
drooping black
bat-like
caped and heaped upon each other
like rung downward chandeliers
of stalactite falling knives
in caves of primal fear

The countries with the largest ***** ***** length are:
Ecuador - 17.61 cm (6.93 inches)
Cameroon - 16.67 cm (6.56 inches)
Bolivia - 16.51 cm (6.5 inches)
Sudan - 16.47 cm (6.48 inches)
Haiti - 16.01 cm (6.3 inches)
Senegal - 15.89 cm (6.26 inches)
Gambia - 15.88 cm (6.25 inches)
Netherlands - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Cuba - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Zambia - 15.78 cm (6.21 inches)

The countries with the smallest ***** ***** length are:
Cambodia - 10.04 cm (3.95 inches)
Burma - 10.70 cm (4.21 inches)
Taiwan - 10.78 cm (4.24 inches)
Philippines - 10.85 cm (4.27 inches)
Sri Lanka - 10.89 cm (4.29 inches)
Hong Kong - 11.19 cm (4.41 inches)
Bangladesh - 11.20 cm (4.41 inches)
Thailand - 11.45 cm (4.51 inches)
Vietnam - 11.47 cm (4.52 inches)
Malaysia - 11.49 cm (4.52 inches)
~
Scientists claim that the size of the ***** does not matter, as long as the job gets done. But those scientists are probably Cambodian. If you liked my last list of the top 10 countries with the biggest *****’s, then you’ll love the list of the top 10 countries with the smallest *****’s. SO bring out the magnifying glass and tweezers, and let’s have ourselves a closer look.
~
Top 10 Countries With The Smallest penîses In The World or unhung hero's 

10. Japan
Researchers found out that the birthrate in Japan is so low, that adult diapers are sold more than baby diapers. The Japanese are packing a whopping 4.30 inches of sausage, I guess, if you can’t reach, you can’t reach, Sashimi anyone?

9. Sri Lankan men very well represent the size of their tiny little country., and their tiny little rooster. With an average size of 4.30 inches.

8. China
We have reason to believe that the Chinese were gifted with a clever mind, and cursed with a small *****, with an average ***** size of 4.29 inches, now we know why Bruce Lee was always so mad.

7. Philippines
Manny Pacquiao has been under the suspicion of using steroids over the years, and if that’s true, then his **** could very well be inverted by now. Cause the Philippines has an average size of 4.21 inches, now that’s a pretty small **** Pac man.

6. Taiwan
Taiwan’s home of lady boys and Alexander ****. But they need some more pay weight gee (Peh-oe-ji) in their pants with a ridiculous average ***** size of 4.20 inches. Women of Taiwan, I feel for you, but it’s okay, just book a ticket to congo.

5. Myanmar
As beautiful as it is, Myanmar, formerly known as Burma, is famous for their two kind of nuts. Betel nuts, and their little hanging nuts, with an average size of 4.19 inches.

4. India
The country who proudly shared its Yoga spirituality **** to the world, never shared the fact that Indian Men have a teensy weensy dickie, with an average size of 4.03 inches. Well we now know the truth. Namaste!

3. Thailand
home to the world’s largest gold Buddha, the largest crocodile farm, the largest restaurant, the longest suspension bridge, and the tallest hotel, I guess they’re trying to compensate for their national average of 4 inches in the ***** department.

2. Cambodia
50 % of the Cambodian population is under the age of 15. No wonder the average ***** size of Cambodian Men is just 3.95 inches. I’m surprised that Neverland ranch wasn’t built there. #RIP the King of *****

1. South Korea
You may have heard their fantastic K-pop, and you may be impressed with their Economical, financial and Military Growth, but I guarantee that you will never see South Korea the Same way ever again, as they hold the record for the nation with the smallest *****, with an average size of 3.8 inches of pure imagination, and you know North Korea can’t be much better, maybe that’s why they’re so secretive.
~

Hi Doctor.
I was wondering about the depth of the ******. I've read statistics that say that the average ****** is only 3 to 4 inches deep. This seems way too small to me, since the average ***** is considerably longer than that. Wouldn't that mean that most penises would crash into the ****** repeatedly during *******? Since this obviously doesn't happen, my question is this: does the ****** actually elongate during ******* to accommodate the entire length of the average *****?

Dear Ashley
DONT WORRY!!
Your ***** can be amazingly elastic and accommodating,
and if you're brave enough no matter how big, anything can be a *****.
Christine O’Bam Slam, MD

what happens when
Dark Fetish meets Radiance Sutra

finding it is like looking for a needle
in a haystack of needles
a dog meowing
night park astral planes with erections

a chromosphere with starry swollen labium
a purity purge, then taking it back
a pro life run away embryo
Debbie Dare and Bridgette Beware
with 3rd eyes blinking like traffic lights
trying to become tasty
while turning up their bottoms
for starving breatharians
who can't resist the allures of
Pandora's portable rubber genitals
they bought
at the five and dime tinsel towns  
Queen ***** Emporium

not everyone can walk in the light of truth
some people burn
like country fair corn fed Iowa lesbians
clucking kisses
asleep and awake at the same time

donut bumpers expecting the unexpected
in an unfathomable matrix
at a witches broom barn dance
during partner swap night
among straight couples
who only like rococo

Jekyll & Dad Samadhi
health, wealth & unhappiness
licking, spitting on each other
and having tantric *** the wrong way

you're safe now bwahhahhahaa

codependent sadomasochists
drift infinitely upward like psychotic marble roses
while Queen Opalala  @ ****** University
gets **** buttered and buckarooed
during the downward dog
to the music of the spheres and poems to **** by

a red head
bed head
**** in a cinematic pillow of flames
mouthing her ruby red lips
in a soft voice  
saying
a day without being forced to her knees
and a slap across the mouth
is a day without sunshine

I
take
my
Prophylactic's
everywhere
I
take
my
*****.
-

i've been reflecting on the topsy side
of feeling strong and healthy
and the turvy side of feeling
a sickly white morbidity
evoking a phantasmal contoured toilet shaped bed pan
and the scent of syringes
bathing in alcohol

when feeling better
i sleep less
feel more alert
eat lotus and drink bone broth
becoming more active
and ambitious
but with it
more demanding  
impatient  
raw with anxiety
agitated and vitriolic
like a buzzing electrical box
in a flood
with crisscrossing wires
shorting
and tainting the air  

when feeling poorly
i turn in on myself  
as if walking on my knees
wanting to avoid  interaction
feeling more and more
like a square peg in a round hole
i become docile
my insides a wandering ghost
in ethers of the unimaginable
a hanging mouth
hung on a face
like falling sand
  
i ask myself is illness
a drug
used to bow out
think about dead people
avoid hurt and stress
to let go 
as if floating through
some intestinal filaments
like an undigested spot of cheese
and a fish head
drawing closer to the shadows  
feeling the numbing of desire
and all the blah blah blah
so i'm not such an *******
cartwheeling terrors of hot air
with the language of vainglory

just a weight around the neck
of someone i love

one
two
three
take out your wee wee

four
five
grab your bride

six
seven
eight
open her gate

nine
ten
**** her then
....
commentary
Q...What do you like about this poem?
A...What I like about this poem is what it doesnt say

"if its *****
*****
naughty
or just plain wrong
i want it"

By the way, did you know that the good ole USA according to Salon Magazine is not even on the list of most sexually satisfied countries. Even communist China has us beat, never mind Switzerland, Italy, Japan, Spain, the Netherlands, Brazil, Greece, Mexico, India, Australia, Germany, and Nigeria to name a few. 
  
  The legacy of the Christian imprimatur has devastated the ****** ecosystem of the American Psyche.  The language used by the middle minded "good people" to describe sexuality is often an ugly cocktail composed of derisive language, like disgusting, slimy, unclean, offensive, obscene, squalid, and nasty to name some. I was once married to a woman who weaponized *** using the word disgusting, meaning my desire for her was disgusting, and I'm disgusting. It was devastating. How could that end well? These words remain a mantra of harm in many relationships shaping a marriage towards abject failure. Isn't Venus already fickle enough without calling that regal gift-giver of love and ****** pleasure an omnibus of epithets?
  
  Can you tell the other person your deepest darkest secrets and feel safe? Can they tell you theirs, or is trust an issue?  
Do we wheedle each other with deception to save face and struggle in a gimping relationship assigning it to crutches, a wheelchair, or an early death propagated by an unholy trinity of ignorance, frustration and co-belligerence on the subject of erotasisim as we clutch hopelessly to hope, wondering how things get so loused up?
Most relationships end over finance and ****** unhappiness.

  While cyber **** is accused of bringing out the worst in us  a short trip through contemporary anthropology demonstrates *** remains ***** irrespective of cyber ***, besides have you seen my stained collector magazine collection at the Museum of *** in NYC?
  
Check it out.
1 Weird ****** Practices from all around the world
1.1 Egypt- Public *******
1.2 Mangaia- Old women sleep with much younger men
1.3 Ancient Greece- Young boy lover to an elder male
1.4 Nepal- Brothers share a wife
1.5 New Guinea- Sambian tribe drinks *****
1.6 Indonesia- *** with strangers on Pon festival
1.8 Cambodia- *** will multiple partners before finding the one
1.9 West Africa- Wife stealing festival
1.10 Marquesas Island, French Polynesia- Children watch their parents having ***
1.11 Inis Beag-Make love with underpants on
1.12 Chattisgarh, India- No emotional attachment ***
1.13 Columbia- Make a man trip to have ***
1.14 Haiti- ****** dance
1.15 New England- No-no to penetrative ***
1.16 Rural Austria- Armpit flavored apples
2 15 Unsolved and Perplexing Mysteries of India
2 17 Japanese ***** Festival
  
  As for language  I prefer mango drip shake kissy witchy **** myself, as opposed to disgusting, but profanity can be bicameral too. On one hand of course it can be cruel on the other it can be an aphrodisiac. Ooow your so gona get it you little *****
Context in its intersectional shades of emotional content is everything.
Do we appreciate the impulses of the chaotic dusky subconscious that may fascinate when it comes to those ****** ideations that may cross our minds in the most private of moments Why not use them to enrich your life, or do we run from them and our primal truth? 
 
  While most all praise only tenderness who says *** is just about love, gentility, and the tender promulgated by middle-minded. Is this **** worm pathology rooted in anti-****** Victorian confabulations of the synoptic religions like tattoo ink into the psychic skin forming a deep seated stain of medieval horrors evocative of a Boschesque inferno with bubbling skin, pitch forks and melting collagen? No, no dont hurt me 
  
  In a life filled with stress and endless concerns about survival ****** expression is a sacred oasis for many of us, not another place to be told what we should do, or feel, or think, or be subliminally infested by the Piscean age pathogens as we currently remain still in the grips of the old Roman empire.
  
  Through an in depth exploration of erotasisim through ****, personal experience and literature we might know our own shadows better, share them happily with others, and bring that dark harvest to light so it doesn't trip us up in an exchange of lies to others but most importantly to our selves. At least when you hookup on a social media ***/date oriented site people tend to tell you the most intimate things about themselves up front.  

It may be important to note the difference between mere sexuality and erotasisim. Sexuality is a beautiful impulse but eroticism raises *** to the status of art. Besides *** itself I think of the athletic sensuality of belly dancing as an example.

"if its *****
*****
naughty
or just plane wrong
i want it"

  To acknowledge the shadow, or better yet enjoy it, doesn't at all mean we are devoid of decency, kindness and love. May I suggest that those virtues are so much more potent when they are part of an integrated whole of our being including the dark side. Real musicians, artists, writers and for that matter people who have the spine to be authentic don't just play the vanilla notes and neither do exciting lovers.
God save the kink!

she had to admit
playing dead with
scummed ****
and a mouth full
that also glued her eyelids shut
brought her to ******

a good slap across the mouth made her **** wet

maybe her strewn flogged body
and *** filled with
tampons, butter knives, and mushed chocolate bunnies
would be discovered
by some gawking men
who would of course be horrified
yet feel some inexplicable romantic impulse
towards her

a study in male humiliation

dressed in a nightmarish logic
and broken heels
her eyes glared askance
with a mouth like smudged ketchup
and a note

hello, I'm dead, you can **** me now, no ones looking

common little man
timorous mouse
with a dead end job
your belligerence
belies your self self pity

she wore sunglasses to cover the bruises he inflicted

*****, noose, twine for a proper strangle
and ghastly potions
to inspire the tears and vomiting
in nurturing waves
that always helped the snuffling up
for a sicko *** massacre
with an all you could **** buffet beating
that made her long hair
fly around like a legendary Bollywood dancer

she spit in his face

they just shared a strange shadowy phantasmagoria
with her bare naked
on her knees
*** upturned and swollen
like a piqued daisy
while her hips moved
from side to side
as if weaving a samba
where at his whim she died repeatedly
a humming *** slave
straddled on a the heavy bladed guillotine
while getting backdoored
in a way
that
they both just couldn't live without

What I don't like about poetry is how the poet often hides like a starved bleeding child under the skirt of civility.

blood on a sugar cube

Too often a kind of Zen of saying something without saying something. Do you think that's subtlety?
Anyway let's face it we are all rather ****** up and some of us try to hide it and a few, very few, of us own it, and some of us have the audacity to celebrate it.  If you're that brave you may be a Satanist.

pants off dance off

We'd write our guts out. Force our readers to gobble up our penned intestines and rub their genitals in them and if they didn't we wouldn't give a flying ****.

a woman who writes feels to much

We might study the art of the spell and the curse. We might **** our sisters girlfriends, as many as we could, or our mothers, or our fathers unless you were given to ****** and then know what it is to be a sick **** and laugh our butts off about it, knowing thats how god actually made you in his divine infallibility.

a man who writes knows to much

We might know our own shadows and bring that dark harvest to light so it doesn't trip us up when we think we've persuaded the so-called good people with those among us who are  good too in an exchange of lies.

flowers from hell

To acknowledge the shadow doesn't at all mean we are devoid of decency, kindness and love, but may I suggest that those virtues are so much more potent when they are part of an integrated whole.

Just sayin, if you died tomorrow I would eat your corpse but why wait?

There's a saying
if you want a *** life dont get married

Back in the day wealthy men had courtesans for pleasure
concubines for quick *** and marriage were about land, labor and the forging of kindship for galvanizing power among tribes and feudal clans

Folks knew better than to have *** with only one person for a lifetime, like that was gonna work

Since contemporaneous studies show that *** among married people often becomes voided at least in part except for *******,
you know, when he sits up and begs and she plays dead

Aside from cheating just to remain sane, today we are going with computers who are our concubines, made internet ******* our mistress
and technology the replacement for human intimacy

I think of guys like Harvey Weinstein, not that I condone his actions and for that matter *** trafficking, both abhorrent.
Do I need to say it?

The problem is that they both along with **** remain symptomatic of a systemic relentless ****** deprivation, that feels like a slow suffocation to many. We outlaw every form of *** and the pure ecstasy of lust either overtly or subliminally that isn't either in marriage, a serious relationship or at least the appearance of one for ***** sake.

Bill Gates among other public notables has been reported to have had acquaintance with Epstein. This game changer businessman looked understandably horrified at any inference of involvement with this notorious slime of course or his infamous ****** Island.

What's more fascistic than circumscribing ****** behavior to such an extreme that people are utterly alienated by their most intimate and sacred desires and feel forced into criminality irrespective of the grave penalties. I'm not blaming anybody persa but why is it any stupider, than the express product of histories 2000-year weave of sensual and ****** disenfranchisement than not getting vaccinated so we dont end up killing our friends, family, and ourselves or thinking Trump is the second coming of the Golden Sun God.

Many of us treat the impulse of desire like its temporary insanity and just wana hurry up and get over with, like wiping filth under the carpet.   

As a society we are still victims of medieval thinking for all our apparent progress, unable to integrate the primal and social without tripping over our own shoelaces and each other's.

The way to a man's heart is not through his stomach
Make the bedroom an alter to Venus
then just go out for dinner.

"roses are red
ice-cream is cold
take off your cloths
and do what your told"

All I know is that I'm 74 and I still haven't had my first period

while being a man eater
she preferred
to be eaten
like a ***** bride for a vampyre

cleanse us from all unrighteousness

she liked her ****
bruised as beaten apples
with scorched *******
perforated with the needles
still glimmering in her areolas
oozing small rivulets of blood
as if alters to a weird mythic Jesus

do unto others

she spread her haunches wide
and knelt in supplication
her **** and glistening **** presented
for the scythe and whipping slick ******

let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace

she imagined
her body like a dirigible
exploding in mid air
her hands caressed her lush *****
with rabid fingers
like a woodpecker on amphetamines
girding an unlocked cage
of wet smeared lips

for this is my blood of the covenant

her **** drooled
as if a thousand baby tongues
dripped for a teasing tickling blade
knotty hung ***** and sagging *****
on the way to a glorious ascension

hard is the path to God

her life more dissolute
than *** **** videos
a rich lady languishing
with a growling animal inside her
and gold enough for life
but not too rich to bleed
extravagant tears of flaming petals
while licking devils *****  
and being eaten and ******
from ******* to gut
in a bottomless rusty bathtub
by a pantheon of fiends

come now, let us reason together, shes a horney *****

in her own rem noir dark city
of obsidian dreams
she woke up happy as a jitterbug
and full of grace
her cunty fingers tasted extra ******
and slippery as melted butter

beware

watch out for the boiling red eye
and the hillbilly keep out sign