Renaissance Man sees things another way,
he has *perspective*.
He is not moved by your dancing,
writhing,
bestiality,
nor by your gimmicks and VR Glasses.
Athens, Rome, Moscow burn?
He plays cello,
calmly reflecting.
A peace inspired by Plato.
…
Renaissance Man looks boldly
into the future,
he sees shit,
he flushes toilet.
…
Nuclear wind blows,
Summer and Winter,
my hero,
never old grows.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
“Well,
that depends on your definition of pornography.”
… Do you care about me?
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
In my dream,
he kissed me passionately,
told me I was beautiful.
He licked my neck and said:
“I wanna fuck your brains out!”
… And other terms of endearment,
such I dream.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
“I hope she’s worth it,” I say to my brother,
though I already know the answer
is no.
…
Endless,
meaningless talk,
stress, pretence,
moral bankruptcy,
wage slavery,
dementia…
What men will do to get fucked.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Neither President nor Rezident can keep it in their pants,
but it’s OK,
every man wishes he was Kennedy.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
He’d drunk enough to be honest, open.
“You’re not like other women,” he said,
“You know, they go on and on and on, non-stop talking, idiotic things. I wanna scream SHUT THE FUCK UP. Women like that, hah, they’re the main reason men like blowjobs. You know, with a mouthful of cock, finally she’s quiet!”
He laughed at his joke and swallowed another drink.
I raised my eyebrows and remained silent, smiling condescendingly.
Men and women aren’t so different after all.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
“42, wow! Being a prostitute agrees with you!” he exclaimed, eyes wide, genuine vibe, no trace of irony.
“You look awesome, beautiful.”
Lyuba, 42.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
I ask him why men like looking at naked women,
the more,
the better.
“It’s primal…” his slurred reply,
jaw gaping,
“and inspiring.”
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
“That’s the smell of life, baby!”
he said, thrusting the damp Kleenex in my face.
I winced.
Strange, his smell of life…
strongly redolent of dead,
rotten
fish.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
Heat of the moment,
heat of the day,
I pulled my top up,
I held it up.
Side of the highway
I cheered loudly,
as the cyclists went by,
making a spectacle of myself.
I don’t know why
but, wow, it felt right!
Only later,
after seeing some pictures
and reading some nonsense
did I think about it
in a rational sense.
It seems I have become a minor celebrity,
albeit anonymous and almost faceless
(the pictures focus on my chest).
…
Today’s pseudo-sensation,
tomorrow’s forgotten,
lost assignation.
…
And so,
I thought,
simpering to myself,
wondering
what my subconscious motivations were
to show everyone watching
my breasts
(and, yes, I knew there was a TV camera there).
Was it a childish attempt to seduce,
or to cheer
(after all, what man doesn’t like looking at breasts?),
or was I proving my womanhood,
indulging a maternal instinct
(“Hey, guys, come suckle,
land of milk and honey!”).
Perhaps it was an act of rebellion
(“Not fuck me,
more fuck you!),
a fun one, I would add.
Maybe I was doing what society expects,
a crazy woman-child, immature,
gone wild.
Conceivably, I’m an exhibitionist.
Could be, I’m a mere pawn.
Feasibly, I wanted to fluster.
Definitely, I wanted to make guys smile
(to an extent hard).
I don’t know
but it felt thrilling
and
je ne regrette rien.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
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 | Svetka Samizdat on Beyond The Pale |
 | @Paul on Beyond The Pale |
 | Mazoli_IC on The Pain Of Emptiness |
 | beavoicefororphans on Another Step Closer… |
