Cum Bucket

I haven’t shared any poetry on here lately because it doesnt’ seem worth my time.

I have 300 subscribers who ditched and don’t read anymore,

So who cares.

Good news is, though, that I’m returning to my roots with my poetry.

Postmodernism.

Whereas previously for a spell I was just kind of blending in with the modern poets.

So it sayit says.

Cum bucket.

Just checking; does anyone read this blog of poetry anymore, or is it pretty much a dead project?

Wondering if I should waste time here anymore, and if so, how much effort I should put into it.

This is What Flash Fiction Ought to Sound Like, Baby Babu Baba

What the hell it won’t let me title it fuckers…

If you think about it, it can hurt you.

I really don’t know where this is going.

Except you better cum. You better cum inside me.

The national guard left early that morning. There was no tea. Then royalty came over and blam blam they had their discourse. Blam blam the camera photons struck them blam blam hard hard hard they came holy hell did they cum.

But they also spoke politics or whatever it is. Fuck it.

Be sure to capitalize every word that ought to be capitalized or else you’ll lose your audience. I’m beginning to see the class and value in capitalization.

Not like capitalizing on the orgasm would’ve helped them any.

Then they came with spray paint bullet spray guns and slaughtered the place.

Blam blam all dead. No more politics. That was all the world leaders.

Now time to find a hobby. Everyone went home alive. Whoever.

What?

No don’t mind me. I’m just the narrator.

Whoa whoa I’m not mortal don’t point that thing at me.

Blam blam.

See?

No guns here, in my house.

That would be horrifying. Lol.

Ha ha ha.

Well.

It’s normal in the story, anyway. I hope you understand.

And then they cummed some more.

Fuckers.

Fuckers all of them.

Til

Somehow, friendship does not vow to change its way when I

Rain song sing

Tell why wise and turnaround

Arduous plague

Arduous plaster

Time of discontent to master

Sing, song alabaster firmament and dancer to the last drop

Til discontent sings no more

In one frame you’re the same

In another frame you’re different

You might ask: Which frame’s accurate?

It matters not

For there exist two frames

To see yourself

And that is plenty