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Poetry is an art form in which language is used for its obfuscatory qualities in addition to, or instead of, meaningful and useful content. Poetry has a long history, and early attempts to define poetry, such as Aristotle's Poetics, focused on the various uses of speech in rhetoric, drama, song and charming the togas off of potential bed buddies. Contemporary poets, such as Dylan Thomas, often identify poetry not as a literary genre within a set of genres, but as noble way of remaining unemployed and virtually useless to society. Poetry often uses condensed forms and conventions to reinforce or expand the meaning of the underlying words or to invoke irrational or sensual experiences in the reader, as well as using devices such as assonance, alliteration and the rhythm method to achieve musical or incendiary effects.
Recent Poems: UnPoetia:J force
Here's what I wrote so far
What the fuck is cilantro, I don't know, All I do is fuck bitches and impregnate there embryo, But if I don't get the pussy Imma still go braggadocio, My bitches cheap, there britches deep, fuckin bitches in Bismarck archipelago, and they make there face like oh, Pussy eating sounds like staccatissimo, Yo, Demonstrating all the pussy procreating, elevating, generating all my seamen I'm a demon, Your a hoe, Coz she's fucking naked and the pace I have invaded in her pussy I've degraded and sedated with my tongue, Don't worry I'm well hung, and she motivated when I fuck her up the dung, Yeah I fuck her up the bum till she numb, and she like it when I sodomize her fucking moxie plum, But bitch your so sterical, you minion faced icterical, Your devotions are spherical, All of your emotions coming out of your testicle, But it's a spectacle, People eat you up like a delectable, Your inner feelings easily detectable, I could fuck you inside your mind coz its deflectable,
Come touch my dick, Bitch you can call me nick, My name is actually Brian, They call me a sex Lion, No Lyin just a Lyon, Call me the chief of pussy prying, Ball me a thief of cushy denying, Stall me intrigued no underlying, Fall me fatigued its horrifying, I can't keep rapping all my life, All my Niggas in we slaves in strife, Even though I'm white, Steven throw that knife, Niggas go insight,
Two roads diverged near a neighbourhood,
Packed with cars from bumper to bumper;
I parked my car, beside it I stood,
Then walked to the bridge, close as I could,
Near the others watching the jumper;
But waiting made me weak and weary,
Worsened further by the falling rain,
With spirits low and vision bleary;
I chanted "Jump!" to make things cheery;
But sadly failed in my lone campaign,
A policeman told me "Move along"
So I trudged back to my waiting car,
Of making someone wait all day long,
For you to bid the world au revoir.
I pressed the pedal and breathed a sigh
Crashing headlong through a neighbour's fence:
Two roads diverged at that place and I--
I chose the route never traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
"A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of."
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Purple Prose is an overly descriptive form of writing commonly used by amateur authors, fan-fiction writers, owners of thesauruses, and H.P Lovecraft. Unlike other elaborate prose, Purple prose is so extravagantly exuberant that it utterly destroys any trace of coherence and floods the writing with enough pretentiousness to simultaneously cream the pants of a hundred aristocrats. The "writing" technique is mostly used to pad out the length of literary works, and/or to mislead readers into believing the work has any sort of quality; the few people who do use Purple Prose as a genuine means of writing are, to quote the minds of most readers of Purple Prose, "babbling nincompoops". Many experts, such as the esteemed professor of English Robert A. Ferret, believe that Purple Prose is the literary form of Gobbledygook, but this comparison is unwarranted: while Gobbledygook simply muddles the English language, confusing most readers, Purple Prose assaults the English language, forcibly removing all that is good in it, until it's changed to a strange, hideous form that allows "life fluid" and "blood" to be synonyms.
Rudyard "Bombay Baby" Kipling wrote a number of bestselling books, prizewinning poems, and front-page Uncyclopedia articles during his long professional life. Born in India in 1865, he detonated on Guy Fawkes Day, 1936, in a dustbin outside Salisbury Cathedral in Truro, Cornwall.
In 1888 Kipling published Plain Tales from the Hills, a collection of vignettes and comic sketches he had performed at various venues all across India. His style captivated the common reader and the gentry too. The reviews were smashing. Queen Victoria said, "We own three copies of Mr. Kipling's work: one for putting Gladstone to sleep, one to read in the loo, and one to throw at the cat."
Mark Twain wrote, "Out in California everyone knows Kipling. We boil up a few of his stories for every meal and serve 'em with gravy."
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