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You can't fake creativity, competence, or sexual arousal.

quote by Doug Coupland
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Dinner Menu Affected The Bedroom

Insecticides concentrated
in meat and fish cause sterility
Amyloid plaque from meat
and fish... cause senility
The animal fat in meat fish
and dairy
clogs the arteries
reducing sexual
ability
*

PREVENTION OF SEXUAL TRAUMA

Impotence And Animal Flesh

A. CONQUERING IMPOTENCE
Dr. Michael Klaper, Md, in a public speech mentioned that a 25 per
cent blockage of penile arteries from cholesterol (animal fat) accounts for a quadrupled lack of function. Elimination of animal products in many cases returns sexual function. The Physicians' Desk Reference lists sexual dysfunction or impotence as a byproduct of many psychiatric drugs.
(Dr. Klaper is available through archives and live discussion on the web
at
Drs. Neal Barnard MD and Chaitowitz both concurred in this opinion in an
article in May in the Montreal Gazette.
National Public Radio on Sept 9,98 hosted the author of a book on Prozac
who stated that 30 to 40% of users feel a loss of sensation sexually.
Viagra has been correlated to heart attacks. (Eli Lilly and Pfizer
make these 2 drugs.) Fox News reported June 10,98 that Viagra in combination
with nitrates such as sodium nitrate used to color hot dogs can be lethal.
Dr. Drew, MD, host of Loveline, stated one should research the many
antidepressants which cause impotence.
B. CURING BREAST CANCER
(See the Ohio file no.7 under Nonviolent Action for an analysis of
federal and state programs regarding breast cancer.)
The New England Journal of Medicine in November of 1997 stated that
animal fats which become trans-fatty acids are a cause of breast cancer.
The major cause of breast removal in the U.S.is animal products.
(The five countries with the highest rates of breast
cancer have the highest animal product consumption. They are
Scandinavian countries, the U.S. and one other. Women with mastectomies lose
none of their beauty, but they have
a difficult time adjusting. Elimination of the butyric acid in animal
products makes the body more fragrant.
(Other factors in sexual dysfunction are generalized anger, anger with
the partner, low self esteem, general exhaustion, female hormones in animal
products, etc.)
The dietary causes of breast cancer are both the animal products and the
female hormones given to the animals. The Dept. of Defense Health Section in
October did a symposium on the trans fatty acids found in animal products as
a cause of cancer.
The administration's plan to give 450 million dollars to the testing

[...] Read more

poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Sexual Healing (Capital Radio Session)

Baby I'm hot just like an oven
I need lovin'
And baby, I can't hold on much longer
It's getting stronger and stronger
And when I get that feeling
I need sexual healing
Sexual healing
Oh baby
Makes me feel so fine
Helps to relieve my mind
Oh baby sexual healing baby, it's good for me
Sexual healing something that's so good for me
Whenever blue tear drops are fallin'
And my emotional stability is leavin' me
There is something I can do
I can just get on the telephone and call you up baby
And honey I know you'll be there to relieve me
The love you give to me will free me
If you don't know the things you're dealin'
Oh, I can tell you, darling, that it's sexual healing
(Heal me darlin')
(Heal me darlin')
Oh, and baby I got sick this morning
A sea was storming inside of me
And, baby I can't hold on much longer
It's getting stronger and stronger
And when I get that feeling
I need sexual healing
Sexual healing
Oh baby, makes me feel so fine
Helps to relieve my mind
Oh baby, sexual healing, baby, it's good for me
Sexual healing is something that's good for me
And it's good for me and it's so good to me
My baby ohhh
Come take control, just grab a hold
Of my body and mind soon we'll be making it, honey
Oh we're feeling fine
You're my medicine open up and let me in
Darlin' you're so great
I can't wait for you to operate
(Heal me darlin')
(Heal me darlin')
I can't wait for you to operate
(Heal me)
When I get that feeling, I need sexual healing
Oh, when I get that feeling I need sexual healing
I gotta have it sexual healing
I wanna have it sexual heali

song performed by Darren Hayes
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Sexual Device

(stuart emerson)
Producer for bonnie: stuart emerson
Im a run away freight train
Headin on down your track
Im the eye of a hurricane
Shooting daggers in your back
Im the howl at the window
The sound of a crackling flame
Getting uncontrollable
And the lines about to break
Nine times out of ten
I get what I want
I always want more
Gonna get what Im looking for
Be my sexual
Be my sexual device
Be my sexual
Be my sexual device
Im a tiger in the bedroom
A mist in the air at night
Inconceivable
An oasis in the fire
A shock on the airwaves
A fighter with a hungry heart
Im incurable
A new sensation
No reservations
This time I win
This time you lose
I still want more
Give me what Im looking for
Be my sexual
Be my sexual device
Be my sexual
Be my sexual device
Be my sexual
Be my sexual device
Be my sexual
Be my sexual device

song performed by Bonnie Tyler
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Those Sexual Innuendos

Innocence has blown up in a puff!

Those,
Sexual innuendos...
Can stir things up!
And addict a kid to lust.
With a stirring that corrupts.

All those sexual innuendos,
Can stir things up.
And when children think of chicken...
They want to know if the rooster plucks.
And in what position does a chicken cluck.

Those,
Sexual innuendos...
Can stir things up!
And addict a kid to lust.
With a stirring that corrupts.

Those sexual innuendos...
That stir things up.
Are fed to feed attraction,
With a stirring things up!

And made to trap...
Weak minds to keep attracted.

Those sexual innuendos...
That stir things up.
Are fed to feed attraction,
With a stirring things up!

And made to trap...
Weak minds to keep attracted.

Those,
Sexual innuendos...
Can stir things up!
And addict a kid to lust.
With a stirring that corrupts.

All those sexual innuendos,
Can stir things up.
And when children think of chicken...
They want to know if the rooster plucks.
And in what position does a chicken cluck.

All those sexual innuendos,
Can stir things up.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward

.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate

'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.

These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.

I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.

And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.

And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.

The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.

I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.

The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.

Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.

I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.

Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.

Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.

I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.

I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.

Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'

That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
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Fake Out In Buenos Aires

Fake out
Fake in
Fake it to me
What is fake?
Fake t.v.
Land of a thousand fake outs
Fake worse than death
In buenos aires
In buenos aires
Fake out
Fake in
Fakers delight
Fake your claim
Fake around the clock
Winner fake all
Three fakes, youre out
In buenos aires
In buenos aires

song performed by They Might Be Giants
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Fake People

All the time
I look in your eyes
But what I see
And what you say to me
Are two totally different things
You pretend you put on a façade
I only wish you knew that I'm not
The only one who sees it as odd
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Because of their own insecurities
They try to pass on to you their idiosyncrasies
Thinking they are your friends you let them into your lives
But then they turn around and about you tell nothing but lies
Jealousy is such an ugly thing
Almost as ugly as hypocrisy
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Fake people
Fake people
So now I must ask who are your friends
Are they really what they seem to be
Or are they just trying to hide from you their envy
Do your friends really have your back
Or is it that that's where by them you've been stabbed
I once had a friend
One I thought would be there for me till the end
Then one day my happiness ended and theirs began
And when I needed someone to lean on
Behind me did no one stand
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Because of their own insecurities
They try to pass on to you their idiosyncrasies
Thinking they are your friends you let them into your lives
But then they turn around and about you tell nothing but lies
Jealousy is such an ugly thing
Almost as ugly as hypocrisy
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Fake people
Fake people
Be careful who you let know your business
'Cause in the end
Rumors about you they could be spreadin'
Don't put your trust in people who don't trust you
There's no telling what they're liable to say or do
Grow smarter with each experience
And you'll see true friends
Are the friends who are their with and for you till the end

[...] Read more

poem by Dionne K. Kelly
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Freeek!

Verse 1
You got yourself some action
Said you got yourself a body
You got yourself an ass with
Mind of it's own bring something to the party
You got yourself addicted
You shoot up, it saves you time
You got yourself a paycheck
Faces in the places where the sun don't shine
CHORUS 1
I'll be your sexual freeek (freeek)
Of the week
I'll be your inspirational brother (sister)
Yo mama can't you see
I'll be your sexual freeek
Of the week (Ohh touch it)
I'll be your educational lover
Your one fxxx fantasy
Can I come on in, my sweet baby
Can I move on in
Can I come on in, my sweet baby,
Can I move on in
Verse 2
You got yourself some action
Said you got your sexy Java
You got your speed connection
Free chat, fxxx that, get a little harder
You got yourself a big bed
You shoot off, take your time
In the house with a bitch and a mouse
And your daddy's plastic how fantastic yeah
CHORUS 2
I'll be your sexual freeek (Back up on this)
Of the week (Yeah . . . I think I need a re-booty)
I'll be your inspirational brother (Sister)
Yo mama can't you see
I'll be your sexual freeek (B,B,Back)
Of the week (B,B,Back back, sexy mama) (Sexual)
I'll be your educational lover
(Yeah) Your one fxxx fantasy
BRIDGE
Sexual freeek (Sister)
I think I need a re-booty
Sexual freeek (Sister)
I'll be your sexual freeek, of the week
I'll be your inspirational brother, Yo mama can't you see
I'll be your sexual freeek, of the week
I'll be your educational lover, your one fxxx fantasy
(Sister) (Baby) Sexual freeek, (Baby) Inspirational brother
You got yourself some action

[...] Read more

song performed by George Michael
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Arousal's dark rainbow

Arousal is red

Violence blue

I'll paint bright a picture

And frame it with you.

Arousal is red

Violence is blue

Tears surely follow

But it's what she must do

Arousal is red

Violence blue

Bound, gagged and handcuffed

Ashamed of the view

Arousal is red

Violence blue

Make a dark rainbow

Shocking but true

poem by Chris Dawson
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Not To Fake To Give

People want to have,
Their...
Lives wrapped up in gladness.
People want to know,
What it's like to have a harmony.
And people want to see,
Their futures bright in the Sun...
Lighting up their faces.
Acknowledging their products of love.

People want to find,
Perfection here on Earth.
But...
People ought to know,
They can't get it freely.
And...
Only those with open hearts.
Also know they're here...
Not to fake to give.

People want to have,
Their...
Lives wrapped up in gladness.
People want to know,
What it's like to have a harmony.
And people want to see,
Their futures bright in the Sun...
Lighting up their faces.
Acknowledging their products of love.
And...
Not to fake to give.

And people want to see,
Their futures bright in the Sun...
Lighting up their faces.
Acknowledging their products of love,
And...
Not to fake to give.

Lighting up their faces.
Acknowledging their products of love,
And...
Not to fake to give.

Lighting up their faces.
Acknowledging their products of love,
And...
Not to fake to give.

Acknowledging that their products of love,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Love Sensual Women

I love sensual women and not passionate ones. A passionate woman closes her eyes, moans and shouts and the enjoyment of a passionate woman is blind.

A passionate woman writhes about, grabs you with her hands without looking where, clasps you, kisses you, even bites you and hurries to reach her climax as soon as she can. She has no time to display her sexual organs, no time to examine, touch with the hand and kiss your sexual organs, she is in such a hurry to slake her passion. Having slaked her passion, the passionate woman will fall asleep. The sexual organs of a passionate woman are dry. A passionate woman is always in some way or another mannish.

The sensual woman is always feminine.
Her contours are rounded and abundant.

The sensual woman rarely reaches a blind passion. She savours sexual enjoyment.
The sensual woman is always a woman and even in an unaroused state her sexual organs are moist. She has to wear a bandage on her sexual organs, so as not to soak them with moisture.

When she takes the bandage off in the evening, the bandage is so wet that it can be squeezed out.

Thanks to such an abundance of juices, the sexual organs of a sensual woman give off a slight, pleasant smell which increases strongly when the sensual woman is aroused. Then the juice from her sexual organs is secreted in a syrupy stream.

A sensual woman likes you to examine her sexual organs.

poem by Daniil Ivanovich Kharms
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Candlelight of Lust

The candlelight, that burns forever,
Surrounded in darkness or light, lust that flares inside wherever,
Sexual satisfaction, inflicted on humans whoever,
The journey through sexual pleasure, the most pleasurable endeavor,
The candlelight burns forever burns throughout life,
The firery yellow flame, that projects through eyes of delight,
The candlelight, that shines forever, through the darkness of the night,
Sexual intercourse, the flame that shines in plain sight,
Such a wonderful feeling, the most pleasurable to humanity,
An escape from the unjust world, the sexual fantasy,
The candlelight, the lightbulb in the mind, on the edge of sanity,
The light that guides the path away from all vanity,
Lust, the instinctive form of physical emotion,
The unsealed bond between two people without devotion,
Sexual satisfaction with high tension of notion,
The candlelight burns, even when the wind blows,
The phenomenon between love and lust, that was coined long ago,
A mystery in a two piece puzzle that no one will ever know,
The candlelight in the darkness that forever glows,
Sexual fantasy, the emotional bond between two,
A beautiful nature, frowned upon in society as a form of taboo,
An addictive nature, the constant fantasy to renew,
The best feeling of human pleasure, beyond what’s true,
Lust, the momentum pushed by sexual desire,
An equal partnership in happiness, the path to acquire,
The candlelight the glows everywhere with the tip of fire,
That lights up the horizon of the sea of dark desires,
The phenomenon of lust, the human instinct hardwired,
The candlelight, also correlated with nature around Earth,
Sex linked to the creation of birth,
The aftermath of sexual pleasure, the high degree of mirth,
Something humanity will never know, the fine line between lust and love,
Weather it’s the manipulation of sexual pleasure, or the connection to the beloved,
Nymphomania, the candlelight I speak of.

poem by Kurt Kacich
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Cushions

When my leaders
Sit in the assembly halls,
For legislation,
With fake brains, fake thoughts,
Fake eyes, fake looks,
Fake existence, fake appearance,
Fake education, fake degrees,
They seem to me
Fake, fake beings,
As if
Some one has placed cushions,
On the sofas and chairs;
Cushions stuffed
With rags of worn out jeans
Or old pieces of sacks
Made of jute.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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That Love For One Another Done

Where do we masquerade now?
That dedicated faith we fake.
The one we parade,
When charades made take place.

And...
Where do we masquerade now?
That dedicated faith we fake.
The one we parade,
When charades made take place.

That love for one another done,
Real or fake.
The respect for our fathers,
Is it real or fake.
The honor for our mothers done,
Real or fake.
And that love for one another done...
Is it real or just for fun?

Concern for our sisters,
Is that real or fake.
And what about our brothers,
Do they hug and fake.
As they backstab each other,
Calling one another 'mothers'.

That feeling,
Is it real or fake.
That feeling,
Is it love or hate.
That feeling,
We all celebrate.
And what about the brothers,
Backstabbing one another.

That feeling,
Is it real or fake.
That feeling,
Is it love or hate.
That feeling,
We all celebrate.
And what about the brothers,
Calling one another 'mothers'.

And that love for one another done...
Is it real or just for fun?

That feeling,
Is it real or fake.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sexual Thing

(laughing)
Jam blues man
There you lay
All by yourself
So please allow me
To introduce myself
I welcome you
To the house of sin
Open your mind
And let the games begin
Im your lust
And Im your greed
Im every sick thought
That you ever done dreamed
Eaten your cake
Now you want some more
Mmm, where have i
Heard that before?
Chorus:
I am your
I am your
Im just your sexual thing
I am your
I am your
Im just your sexual
Aint nothin but a sexual
Its just a sexual thing
Lyin there
You look so horny
Talk is cheap
And startin to bore me
Hold me close
And tell me it feels so good
But damn, girl
You knew it would
Chorus
Solo
Glad to have met you
So pleased that youve come
But I must be movin on
My work here is done
Best believe me you, child
The pleasures been all mine
If youre in need, please do indeed
Call me anytime
Chorus
Theyve got you medicated
Its got you so frustrated
He caught you masturbatin
You rather be fornicating

[...] Read more

song performed by Poison
Added by Lucian Velea
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The-Bad-Taste-It-Makes

When it comes,
It comes not to leave.
It seems to stay there eternally.

When it comes,
It's hard to breathe free.
Eventually it's shown on one's sleeve.

Heartbreak!
No fake the aching.
Or escape,
The wounds inflicted hard to shake.

Heartbreak!
No fake the chasing.
Or erase,
The bad taste it makes.

When it comes,
It's hard to breathe free.
Eventually it's shown on one's sleeve.

Heartbreak!
So hard it is to go away.
Heartbreak!
No fake the aching.
Or escape,
The bad taste it makes.

When it comes,
It comes not to leave.
It seems to stay there eternally.

Heartbreak!
No fake the chasing.
Or eliminate,
The-bad-taste-it-makes.

When it comes,
It comes not to leave.
Heartbreak!
No fake the aching.
Heartbreak!
No fake the chasing.

When it comes,
It comes not to leave.
Heartbreak!
No fake the aching.
Heartbreak!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sexual Suicide

Baby, u take a walk
Take a walk and leave me behind
Baby, u gonna walk, yeah
Gonna walk right out of your mind
U better have 2 feet
We got no reason, reason 2 lie
Baby, u take a walk
Think Im gonna take a sexual suicide
Baby, if u only knew
All the love, want a love thats deep in my heart
Ooh baby, bein here with u
Wouldnt be nothin could tear us apart
Alright, uh, every night
Cool surrender, lost in your arms
U, ull be surprised
Doin it in the cuffs, sound your alarm
Baby, gonna take a walk
Think Im gonna take a sexual suicide
No body like my body, baby
Aint no ride like my ride
Super skin in my car, baby
If ure drivin me, then maybe
Sexual suicide
Aint it a shame
That u wont play the game
Got 2 much pride
U, u make your bed
But u got 2 see the sexual, sexual suicide
Suicide, sexual, sexual suicide
U take a walk
We can talk

song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
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Making Me Hate You

Cant simplify all the things that burn inside
But when you ask, Im fine but Im lying all the time
Its tough to say when you laugh at me this way
But in my mind Im crying, Im crying all the time
So pick up the vide, make me want to justify
Every word thats coming out your mouth
No looking back, you better choose a side
Im sinking within
You fake, you lie
Youre making me hate you
You fake, you lie
Youre making me want you even more
Cant see any good side of you
But I am trying, Im trying
I cant explain all the damage you can bring
But when Im blind
Im dying, Im dying all the time
So pick up the vibe, make me wanna justify
Every word thats coming out of your mouth
No lookin back, all I wanna see
Is that youre sinkin within
You fake, you lie
Youre making me hate you
You fake, you lie
Youre making me want you even more
Yes I will always be
Torn by what I see
Yes I will always be the same
Even though I stop thinking of you
Cant simplify all the things that burn inside
But when I try, Im dying, Im dying all the time
You fake, you lie
Youre making me hate you
You fake, you lie
Youre making me want you even moreyou fake, you lie
Youre making me hate you
You fake, you lie

song performed by Unloco
Added by Lucian Velea
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Fake Friend(Revised, In Line Form, Oh and Viewable

The poison seeps from of your eyes.
I can read your lies.
Pure and innocent are dead and gone.
Fake it just fake it.
Pretending your some thing your not.
In the end I win cause I have had been in the alleys.
I've slept in a abandon home to keep from catching cold.
Where were you then my fake friend?
Who do think your fooling?
Do you stop and try to give a ride?
So how bout it my fake friend.
Such a beautiful sharlton.
When I was getting beat up in the courts by five guys for protecting a races rights.
Where were you then my fake friend?
When my house burnt before my very own eyes.
Where were you then?
Hiding behind closed doors like so many times before.
Every thing has been standing still.
I knew the time would come when I would be done with it.
You can't help those who lead.
They'll follow no ones' road but there own.
Judge me not cause don't know how much ambition I truly got.
My fake friend you will not make your failings my own.
For each man women child breaks free of such tyranny.
This is to you my fake friend.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Added by Poetry Lover
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Something Interseting Sestina #1

as long as you live, there is love
but in the recceses rise hate
all these words I draw with passion
with nothig to support me, except my faith
but to others my philosophy seems fake
so I go eat in a kitchen

build me a broken kitchen
that can be worsen by love
a kitchen that make all truth fake
one that is made whole with hate.
There I can vehemently laugh at those with faith,
there I have no time for passion

I have no time for you because you have no time for me dear passion
that's why you can't be a recipe in my kitchen
an the essence in my food is not threw faith
don't love
lie, loath, be livid, and hate
understand such rules with sincerity, don't be fake

yes I say that because the mind of the world is fake
no true passion
much mocked hate
but all is genuine and true in my kitchen
no false love
and lots of thrawted faith

tried faith
and to others this isn't fake
the situation is as real as love
and love as real as unforgiven passion
and both passion and love will destory my uncanny kitchen
which is established by raw hate

that word hate
miss understood by those that don't know the meaning of its faith
but all my creations thrives on it in my kitchen
and yes I will assure you no thing is fake
plus all creations are made without passon
and all creations in my kitchen are mained by love

So come in with hate, and finally take in all creation that's not fake
renew and change your faith, and here make lame all passion
in my kitchen, the place that no one love.

poem by Victoria Lee
Added by Poetry Lover
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