She had love for this man so gentle and austere,
She betrothed his masculinity not caring for the difference of status,
He turned his back, turning it in a nightmare for her,
Next day she was drinking binges getting past all her hiatus.
Poor Technicians of Desire
We produce erotic aesthetics,
numbing your limbs with pleasure,
We reincarnate every now and then,
In gutters we lie flushed out after fulfilling desire.
The terrorists of theory
We believe in inscriptions without references,
bow down or get killed like Charlie Hebdo,
there is one and only one in the sky,
going away! you coward! joining us! oh bravado.
Bureaucrats of the revolution
We are tired of not doing anything,
lets play along with the money and blindfolded society,
It wont change the world for good,
but our time will pass with the luxurious vanity.
Civil servants of lies
We are always smiling to fool you,
we cant help with our desire for duality,
we are bound to our duties for nothing,
we are all you see around humming the fake reality.
The erotic art
The combination of philosophy and psychoanalysis,
crafted beautifully by assessing the seventh sense bent,
it is the relationship of the ultimate desire,
with the capitalistic machines of flesh on rent.
The Game of Life
Sleeping in the journey of life, she held his hand,
She put it on her belly, shining with an existence and vigor,
HE shall recover our pains the world laid upon us,
later, HE was identified as SHE, an entity no more.