"And the shattered windows across lanes of virgins and ugly ministers. My blood-drenched cunt smiles at the leering, the wretched, the old and the young. My thighs spread like cascading pools of Tasmanian beer. A life of abuse, of torture, of late-night throbbing. And my ill-proportioned breasts slump the underwhelming alpha-males into sedation, like pills of relief, used to anti-inflammatise the drudgery of being. The men just piss themselves stupid and get stuck in unsuspecting women. An innocent bird perches on a branch and squawks at my cunt. My cunt. My bleeding, plugged-up cunt. My aching Achilles'. My fucking cunt, my dormant cunt, my pissing cunt. A beastly target for inaccurate beasts on pussy pilgrimages. Purring like a cunt, to be sure. And all the while it lies like a deceiver and swallows the receiver. Oh ho ho, the incompetent beaver let's the flood in. What a wretched cunt. Fucking cunt. My little cunt. My fucking little cunt. My cunt. MY CUNT! MY CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT! My cunt. CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT! The end."
From the 14th of October, 2005.
Duck, Duck, Cockatiel
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The move is officially complete, though I'm still living with a few islands
of stuff—the main one located in what agents like to call the "meals area".
Rea...
7 years ago
3 comments:
It quite possibly predates it, too.
Marvellous display of the male equivalent to penis envy.
Of note, there are some physiological incongruities that need to be amended.
Are you Flemish perchance?
You saw through this poor parody of an ovary-bearing open-miker, all right. I was really just venting my frustration at my lack of lacking a phallic and my missing out on the joys of menstruation, child birth and being on the receiving end.
'Twas a B-side. I wrote it (presumably after watching a similar if less extreme recital on Channel 31), rejected it, then dredged it up when I had nothing better to say. There's not much to it, really.
The physiological incongruities don't seem to me to be particularly glaring, seeing as it's told in that overcooked-metaphor way. Then again, I don't have one; I merely envy them as they pass by my window. And what a silly act amending a B-side would be.
No, I'm Homeric.
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