Experimental Writing on Eroticism

Okay, so firstly I thought this was good. Then i left it and read it again and thought it wasnt that good. But then again, I want you guys - those of you that read my blog - to read it. I'm no Marquis de Sade, ofcourse, stupid of me to even use his name in support of my own vanity here. But none-the-less. I hope you guys read it.

Thank ya!
X

Lying in bed, I realised it was not only the stars that she was aspiring to that warm December night. Fearless, she lay in bed watching the black butterflies of death cover the light. As inevitable as it seems, the light of invulnerability. Raising her hand in the now ominous darkness, she caressed that usually chastised area which was only distinguishable by its unburdened sonorous whispers coming from her gaping mouth. At this moment the clamorous odour of that alienated pollution seeping through the gigantically ill-sized windows was but a distant past. As her breaths get deeper, thicker, and agonisingly beautiful, en route to my shamefully naked body she turns – like a Cadillac towards an old, used motel room. She strikes my hand in an aloof fashion; oblivious and out of whim. I breathe sporadically, my heart not listening to the signals sent through my nervous system - for obvious reasons: they are getting distorted but the experimental touches of a softened hand not yet corrupted by the callousness of neither age nor wisdom. I develop my mouth towards hers in a less then indiscrete fashion which, by the nature of animals, is the preferred way to nestle a woman. My touch is rough and in control; dominant on her skin. Yet it is calm, collected, and gentle with exhilaration – the way a man’s embrace should be. With a bit of force and the assistance of her succumbing nature I move her legs ajar as I exercise a rapturous touch across the inner flanks of her thigh. Pertaining to the nature of the wind, I allow my hands to move over her nether region as though out of caprice; not thought out. She lashes out the delicately lascivious tones of breath, which not only move my soul around the inner corridors of my heart, but release the butterflies around my vitals. I overflow her thoughts with desires by massaging my hands into her voluptuous curves. Dangerously, I slide my fingers into those chastised privates, that before, were not yet familiar with a touch of pleasure, however now, those that flourish: damp with the saturation of love.

The story of climax, and hard-rooted sexual desires will be left, for a later date where Reason will give me room to speak freely.

Darker Moments of Love

Do not even the collosal winds of the Godly zephyr blow through your heart?

Do you walk astray on terrain unknown?

Do you murder your soul with incessant stabbings of dispair?

Does not a single strand of love sweep your face?

Do you walk without direction? Without hope?

Is there no one left to tell the story of luck?

Is love, here, long forgotten?

First Draft/Brainstorming of One of Many Philosophies Concocted by a Disturbed Young Delinquent

This is just totally written of the top of my head, and has not been looked into detail, i will inevitably extend this to be a lot less precarious then what it may first appear to be as you read it now.

I believe the idea is quite concrete, but can be manipulated to specific perspectives. I may also change my mind over time, so do not use that as a valid argument against me. Also, do not use my own words against me, cause that does not submit a valid anti-thesis in my eyes. Moreover, do not use my ideas and twist them. This will inevitably happen, but please try see the full meaning of what i am writing. I will also do my best to explain things to my utmost ability in the posts that i post and also in latter posts.

Here goes:

Life is lived in retrospect. In such a way that it is like walking in a forward velocity, backwards. It is quite ironically hippocritical in a logical sense. We look at the past to determine the future. Our thoughts are just dogmatisms created by the analysis of past events. We do not live in the now, this is impossible, but rather we like in the past striving for the future. This is inevitable.

In succession, if thoughts make up who we are and the only attianment or proof of thoughts comes from 'a priori' or simply prior events, then the logical sum is that the past is the only true evidence of 'Self'. And, if 'Self' can - in logical order of study - be our concious, and therefore our concious the only way for us to know that we are living (something i will go into detail, hopefully, in latter posts. The whole idea of Descartes' 'I think, Therefore I am'), Then without the past we would be mentally dead. In the fatalistic meaning of the phrase.





Hope this stirs some minds.
- Boki

Walking With The Devil

I haven't written forever. But fuck it. I'm writing now.

Here's something i wrote not long ago. And, i actually have a name for it:

Fearless

The rain is heavy with fear,
I cannot see clear.
The rain is hard to bear,
I cannot see over there.
Angels, give me the strength to dwell,
Where you yourselves fear to tread!
Heavens may you open up your rays of welcome,
And me, i hope you will beckon.

Let evil fear the wrath of light,
Shining on its ominous soul so bright.
May the earth beneath my steady feet,
Not crumble when i face hell in all its heat,
May my soul be full of grace,
When i arrive at the gate to the devils face.
'Leave All Hope Outside' it will say,
Its arches rooted deep, in a dreary dirt-like clay.

With a courage of a thousand wars,
Letting go of all my flaws,
I will enter withour fear,
Even when hope is so far to even hear.
I will walk on the ashes of death so vile,
Without a strife in my stride ill go it for an endless mile.

And if death were to meet me there,
At the cross roads of my own dispair,
I will not falter,
I will not drown in the deathly hallows water.
I will not halt!
I will not take his welcoming bread and salt.

For our love is my effervescent drive,
The one on which my hope and fearlessness thrive.
Hell itself cannot destroy,
Nor rip and burn,
Or throw away like a toy.
Nor the devil himself able to prevail,
With his wicked wit, and perfect charm; he will fail.
For i am omnipotent and always tearless,
With your love, I am fearless.

A Poem I Wrote

Here is something i wrote. It was a while back, but i am bored and feel like posting something. I like it, you guys might too.

The summer never comes around here,
No the sun does not shine bright here,
In the underground, here, we loom in out own desperation,
In the underground; Here! we die in our already present ditches.
No my friend, Oh! the sun does not shine bright here,
No my friend, the summer never comes around here.
Nor do the windows open to the smell of flowers in the zephyr,
Nor do the doors allow entry to mellifluous soul,
Not here my friend, oh.. not here.
Here darkness consumes the very corners of your existence,
Here the darkness allows no playground for hope,
Here! the darkness does not let you rise off of your knees,
Here, the darkness sweeps love out of your heart.
Oh! not here my friends, not here
Will you hear love and laugher in the same abode
Oh, not here my friend not here
Will the living ever appear.
Here my friend we are all walking corpses.
Here my friend we are already dead.
No, the summer does not come around here,
No, my friend, the sun does not shine bright here.




I have not got a name for it. I guess ill think of that in the next 30 years.

Rough Draft

Hi guys, I'm Boki. Just another kid raised in this relentless, unyielding, merciless horizon that incessantly rises no matter how far we try to deviate from its rays of conformity. This horizon, my dear readers, is what you unwillingly, and unconsciously mistake as life.

So here i am, a self-contradictory, living example of the stubborn force that pushes even us who wish to deviate into the same Socratic box as everyone else.

Note: Using a small 'i' in the above sentence is not a grammatical error my dear readers. Far from it. It is my way of admitting that i, am not an 'I' but rather an 'i'; a very similar brick to those that build up the house of the internet populous. Yes, my cracks might differ from yours, but i lay right next to you; the same size, similar colour, and from the same oven.

Here are some things that might describe me, if i myself know who i am. These things alone do not come close to configuring a significantly finished picture of myself. But give you an idea into my world.

P.S. i am not morbid nor dark. I will just write exactly what im feeling and what i wish to write.

Thanks for viewing my first post, readers. Wish you all the best.






































I tried looking for some great photos of really sexy girls with a lot of attitude - unfortunately to no avail. Maybe one day i'll be able to find some that i dont have to scan to my computer.