ClockworkFox
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2018
- Posts
- 193
I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to the 17 people who read my “Ode to White Gold” poem, finally posted today.
But it is the rest of you I have more to say to. Much more. To you, yes, you. All of you out there. The arsefuck advocators, the jerk junkies and the frenetic finger-fuckers, the lesbian lovehole-lickers, the queer contingent, the hairy-pie whores, the pole-sucking poofs, the titfuck twats, the bisexual bikes, the skinny skanks, the non-consent nutcases, the mind control masturbators, the wanton wifesluts, the transos, the intros and the extros, all of you. All those dark, nasty little perversions you slaver and slobber and salivate over as you jerk and squirt onto your keyboard at 4 in the morning after a humongous wankathon for the third time this week - and today is fucking Wednesday – the semen-stained and gunk-stained T-shirts and panties and Y-fronts piling up in the washing machine, the plates and cutlery from twenty-five chicken tandoori takeaways piling up in the sink, those clothes that have been on the line for a week ought to be dry by now, don’t you think, three bags of rubbish sitting at the door, cockroaches everywhere, flies buzzing around a vile week-old hard black stool floating in the toilet … what is the matter with you? … with all the depraved minds of such a dirty crowd of perverted sickos and mentally unstable trash, is none of you interested in a poem about spunk? Only 17? Jesus H Christ.
The poem is about you, arseholes. I wrote it for you. It is a small and succinct symphony to a sexual sequence. It is a celebration of the mesmerisation, jubilation, elation and discomknockerisation of ejaculation. Do you know how long it took me to write? Do you know how many rude synonyms you have to think up for spunk, for its attributes, for what it does, for what it consists of? Do you know how much I tortured myself with the adjectives and adverbs and the fucking metre and rhyme? The least you could do is read it, motherfuckers.
Mistress S
But it is the rest of you I have more to say to. Much more. To you, yes, you. All of you out there. The arsefuck advocators, the jerk junkies and the frenetic finger-fuckers, the lesbian lovehole-lickers, the queer contingent, the hairy-pie whores, the pole-sucking poofs, the titfuck twats, the bisexual bikes, the skinny skanks, the non-consent nutcases, the mind control masturbators, the wanton wifesluts, the transos, the intros and the extros, all of you. All those dark, nasty little perversions you slaver and slobber and salivate over as you jerk and squirt onto your keyboard at 4 in the morning after a humongous wankathon for the third time this week - and today is fucking Wednesday – the semen-stained and gunk-stained T-shirts and panties and Y-fronts piling up in the washing machine, the plates and cutlery from twenty-five chicken tandoori takeaways piling up in the sink, those clothes that have been on the line for a week ought to be dry by now, don’t you think, three bags of rubbish sitting at the door, cockroaches everywhere, flies buzzing around a vile week-old hard black stool floating in the toilet … what is the matter with you? … with all the depraved minds of such a dirty crowd of perverted sickos and mentally unstable trash, is none of you interested in a poem about spunk? Only 17? Jesus H Christ.
The poem is about you, arseholes. I wrote it for you. It is a small and succinct symphony to a sexual sequence. It is a celebration of the mesmerisation, jubilation, elation and discomknockerisation of ejaculation. Do you know how long it took me to write? Do you know how many rude synonyms you have to think up for spunk, for its attributes, for what it does, for what it consists of? Do you know how much I tortured myself with the adjectives and adverbs and the fucking metre and rhyme? The least you could do is read it, motherfuckers.
Mistress S
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