Go fuck your mother! Where do you want
to get to with your allusions? I made no plan
how I should attack you, red-haired boy.
I feel that my face has caught fire I’m disappointed,
disorganized, disordered and I’m not a dumb
blonde. You are a control freak and you’re terrifically
good at controlling me, your disgusting hardened
pecker doesn’t disappear right before my eyes ‒
it’s a rocket that enters with the flame into my womb.
I doubt that today you’ll grant me a voluptuous
audience and I feel that I have half the luck.
Frustrated, I frown at my image in the mirror.
Damn my hair ‒ it just won’t respond. I don’t
have to sleep with the wet hair. Look, what
I’m doing, I’m straining to convince my hair
to stay proper, humid, but with the finger
I caress on my lips the red flower that is crying.
I do it many a time, then I tame my hair
with the hairbrush that my flower absorbs.
Exasperated, I roll my eyes and I stare
at the pale face but in a corner your hanging
pecker I stare at it, but it’s a shadow I let out
a holler moving the hairbrush inside.
Do you like that? You gramophone!
PLEASE DONATE USING MY IBAN IN THE PIC BELOW
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