No support for the notion of the poet as someone that can do without a
concern for what she / he delivers to that 'world'( made of cunts and
penis) because each egg he/she defecates is poetry.
Everybody knows (ddeply inside) that each individual in passing in the
street or sitting in front of one's desk has a penis or a cunt (or else a
penis and a cunt at the same time).
What a shock, what a diiscovery, and What a wonder?! Let's talk about each
of us genitals for a while because we need to be told that we do have the
body (I think we recall very well we have bodies which are alive, but we
forgets that it will turn into a carcass and that penis and cunts will dry
up - in a few days afetr death, and turn into dust), and give detailed
descriptions on how we use our bodily fluids during the day, with whom, for
what practical or metaphorical aim, at what time we fuck (copulate) and at
what intervals we masturbate (in front of or away from whom).
And then you tell me again who do you write for.
Erminia
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