Little Lolita in Poets Land

Little Lolita in Poets Land
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1

photo courtesy

content.answers.com/main/content/wp/en/2/22/Lolita.png

When she was a little child
Lolita like
Precocious cheeky and cute
Her horny poet uncle
Would seat her on his hot laps
Teach her the art of poetry
While she unconsciously
Warmed his flute
Incongruous nature of this duet
Beneath the innocence
Seductiveness
Of her birthday suit

Today she is a poet of repute
Wearing men’s trousers
A holster cowboy boots
A Stetson settled on her head
Male poets she is ready to shoot
Memories of her uncle
His lecherousness
Her silence
Deaf dumb and mute
Destroying male poet bastions
Her only obsessive pursuit
With a neat slash mercilessly
Her opponent she will execute
The best of his phallic fallacy
From the core uproot
Vindicating her stance
Her only chosen route

Hasibaullah the Taliban Rabid Afghan Hound

Hasibaullah the Taliban Rabid Afghan Hound
Originally uploaded by flickr photographerno1

Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Hasibaullah the Taliban Rabid Afghan Hound



Image courtesy Google Images

Hasibaullah the Taliban Rabid Afghan Hound
Loves biting Hazaras and Shias
this radical seminarian product
of a whore and an equally rabid
Rogue Mullah unsound
you can find him on flickr
his pictures of snow castles
as your pictorial aesthetics pound.
his sister sells her whorish soul
mentruating her sorrow on her rotten mound
a thought I can no further expound
tomato paste says he of shia blood
this bleeding mongrel flea infested blood hound
perforated rectum a gay canine icon matters confound

this poem is for a flickr member who has been defecating his anti shiasm on my posts.. nothing personal...
I just got another message from this rabid sectarian hate promoting canine..

So now how do you feel with tomato sauce up your radically perforated ass..hasibaullah , at least learn to fuck what you have in hand and that you cant satisfy, my wife is pretty happy with me , my mother is dead
you chicken shit piece of turd..
You I am sure must be popular at home with my poem...going to be like a grinding stone round your neck forever..