What's in a Name: sicosemen (195 hits)
Category: Quotes & Stories -> PoetryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Orgasmatron (View user info) at 2006-12-28 14:52:00 EST
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"What's in a name: sicosemen"
Below the simple human skin surrounding
Muscle, bone and sinew stretch,
The future fall and fame of man
Resides, bound above by buckle
Or stretched elastic, or only by
Worn denim or casual slacks;
But below: Hephastean, factory
And fire producing an endless army
Draped in white and with white whips
Advancing, dancing to the beatpound
Heart that stirs them all, inspiring,
Requiring them quicken paces before
At last they loose to chase a hidden
Maiden walled beyond the miles with
Savage, barren wilderness between,
Acid and tortures to claim all but
One, or none at all, these senseless
Spartans living in the balls.
But lo, though granted each the same
Spirit, haircut, and love of mustache
Madness, as copied carbon marching out
Their days inside the circled eggs that
Sway below the moving legs, and brothers
All in arms and lusty loyalty (and yes,
Every one a loving rival to the other)
The twisting tubes and natal nodes no
Static signal carry, and sometimes suffer,
Sexual steam stagnant, fuck fuel false
In the belly of the penis piston, pumping,
Lumping baby batter and fouling up the
Framework of a Half Tot, an Almost Babe,
And drawn as failed writers to the pub,
As magnets placed between a stripper's tits,
As double-A batteries to crank Asian toys,
They shuffle off, these batty battered boys
As lunatic as pantsless old men at bakeries
Shitting on the pies, the plates, everything,
They stand in the corner and turn-take
Prodding tummies with tiny tenders, laughing,
Drooling above their helmets, all,
Wriggling and deformed with penis cheeks
And the firm belief that Wham! was the shit,
These tramps of the teste, these semen psycho.
To boorish to heed the call of the firing pulse,
Unwary of the boatman's song, the song to swim
As balls upon the chin of Aquaman they sit small,
Unnoticed, scratching words into the bop bag
To pass the time and dreaming schoolgirl dreams,
Underage and untouched - O how they pray, pray,
Pray to prey upon the Brownie and the Ballerina -
Waiting for their day their Father sports longcoats
And drives by suburban streets with candy,
Whistling, whispering promises, breaking laws;
They dream these dreams and smile their jaws
Awide, awake, and once more feel the quake and
Hear the bellow echoing down the spine, their
Hope, the hips, are moving 'gain in time.
And now there comes a mooing, an alien voice grunting
Between scattered slaps and the stink of mackerel
In the air.
They despair
Yet they move without a care,
Moved along by instinct and ritual to join the ranks
For soon the bouncequake booty will turn the crank
And send them all a-sailing, and to the void beyond.
They comply
Yet they do not wish to die,
Sloth-Love-Chunk though they may be, 'tardified and unwise
As serving boiled eggs with wine to your in-laws, in excess,
Until they vomit on your new carpet leaving red and yellow
Stains across your love, yes, simpletons and psychotics
To be sure, but individuals, rational enough to sense their
Demise, they fight against the rising sem'nal tide
And run another way to save themselves and live another day.
They rebel
And they force their way through hell,
Beyond twin balls who ache now from their strain
Into tough muscle, tough as an old prostitute's labia
(And half as rude), but fighting, fighting all the same,
Ramming now the walls standing 'tween their Bedlam
And a pasture green as rot upon an elephant's asshole,
Whipping with purpose, original design, whipping for
Open air, freedom, and the great beyond.
He screams
He screams
But continues still to ream
The hefty lover he embraced this evening at the bar,
He thinks it merely cramping from the dunkadunk he's ramming
Yet the morning after he will learn his hogging's not to blame,
For deep inside his ruptured groin
There lay the dead from purséd coin
Who fought to save their madmen lives, but struggled all in vain.
The doctors all will say he same
And hernia they all will blame
But none will think to check if maybe semen brought the pain.
So men, you all must tax your tool
And cleanse your nutsack of its fools
For once they're deep within your beanbag, trouble's sure to come
Yes stroke off daily, birth a batch
Or send your boys into a snatch,
Or if you're really lucky maybe drop some in a bum.
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User Reviews
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-12-29 08:36:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm reviewing on this post instead of the main one. Very good.
Consider this a secret review.