Archive for the ‘Woman-child’ Category

Tiziano_ Amor Sacro y Amor Profano (1514)

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

 

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Hong Kong Jockey Club_ Happy Valley

 

“Well,

that depends on your definition of pornography.”

… Do you care about me?

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Woman sleeping

 

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

 

Shtange, Irina Dmitrievna (1906-1992) - Tri Gracii

 

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