In,
Seeds of Shit, Ecstasy, and Explosion,
Blossoming in the time of Bacchanalia,
Becoming the ripe Anti-Air Missile,
That shoots down the Fireworks,
In the Fall.
[peintpeint]
Chanting voice from the Hinterworld,
Painting,
Magnified fecal impactions,
Brushed to break through no man’s lands,
In its metastatic invasions.
Anti-protest.
Poetic rendering of words and ideas,
That shuts off the mouths of protesters,
Martyrs to their own cancers,
Marching around with banners, saying “How Are You?”
In their arses.
Romantic Ultraman; against the mighty Superman,
Both sofistication and confidence in naivete:
For coitus reservatus.
… sons of sons of bitches and bitches and daughters of sons of bitches and bitches and daughters of sons of sons of bitches and bitches and daughters of sons of bitches and bitches.
And then I asked,
Why the fuck Orgasm doesn’t last long?
