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,



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.





Hong Kong Jockey Club_ Happy Valley



that depends on your definition of pornography.”

… Do you care about me?




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.




“I hope she’s worth it,” I say to my brother,

though I already know the answer

is no.


meaningless talk,

stress, pretence,

moral bankruptcy,

wage slavery,


What men will do to get fucked.




Neither President nor Rezident can keep it in their pants,

but it’s OK,

every man wishes he was Kennedy.




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.




“42, wow! Being a prostitute agrees with you!” he exclaimed, eyes wide, genuine vibe, no trace of irony.

“You look awesome, beautiful.”

Lyuba, 42.




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.”




“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,






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,


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


je ne regrette rien.