“I wasn’t going anywhere and neither was the rest of the world. We were all just hanging around waiting to die and meanwhile doing little things to fill the space. Some of use weren’t even doing little things. We were vegetables.”—Bukowski, Pulp. (via various-vacuousventings)
Pop has hardly just developed this pretty potty mouth. But never have so many artists spilled profanity so blissfully, or embraced salaciousness with such ease. There’s a sort of carefree, cheerful quality about such naughtiness now. Red-hot content has become strangely warm and fuzzy. Sometimes it seems daring, at other times it feels like a form of denial.
first they used to, he told me, gun and bomb the elephants, you could hear their screams over all the other sounds; but you flew high to bomb the people, you never saw it, just a little flash from way up but with the elephants you could watch it happen and hear how they screamed; i’d…
I, for one, think it’s cruel and unnatural to expect us ladies to shave “down there”. We don’t expect men to do it, and is a little hair really that offensive? It keeps us warm, and, let’s face it, shaving your vagina makes you look like a little girl. This movement by society, porn, and, therefor, men banning pubic hair really disturbs me. Is that really what men want? Well, I just don’t give a shit if they do.
I died in my dream And was planted in a sea of sunflowers, Anchored by a surgical table and calculated hands Singing scalpels across the landscape of my pale back. They pulled away the skin, Draped it over the cathedral walls of my ribs, And studied my mazes of blood, muscle, bones, nerves. When they went away I was Left gaping on the table. The sunflowers taunted my exposed state, Their yellow freedom swinging in the breeze.
Then you came up from behind, Ran your soft digits over the discs of my spine until organ music Began pulsating deep from my compressed pipes And I was Ethereal.