matters, I am a follower of Rousseau.
Thoughts only for the train,
None for its destination,
He fondles his prick, forgetting
It was built for penetration.
Conformist as a boy, he lifts his can
Gulps lager, and shouts insults at his team
And wanks away, and in his gushing dream
All other men believe he is a man.
Head of IT
It's "Online live interactive teen striptease!"
She'll pose and pout and giggle, "Oooh, you're
Meanwhile the details of his credit card
Are being gently fingered in Belize.
When our boys are posted off to do their duty
In some lousy arsehole-wretched foreign land,
They think rich thoughts of England, Home and Beauty,
And, whatever may arise, they've things in hand.
He hates them for their power, the dirty flirts
Who fill him with that urge to peer up skirts.
He pummels at his badness till it hurts
And consolation comes in guilty spurts.
New British Artist
Not sex as such. See it rather as a post-ironic version
(Self-referential) of meta-sex. Otherwise, complete immersion
In the colour-field produced when eyes close tight,
And then - that masterstroke! - that splash of white!
If you've any comments on his poem, Wayne
Carvosso would be pleased to hear