Can’t argue with the shapes we make. Clovers, petals, daises, carnations, half-dead naked corpses with artichokes shoved up their arses. Rape this, rape that, rape a woman, rape a man.
Rape is a church in which sexuality breathes. If you were a shrimp in a laboratory you wouldn’t care about the rapist with the margarine in the shed with the sordid things that squeal, ‘favour the French, savour the Turks!’
More blogs than can possibly be reasonable is what you preach.
Come, go, rape, sew. It is the Zen.
Rape is a church in which sexuality breathes. If you were a shrimp in a laboratory you wouldn’t care about the rapist with the margarine in the shed with the sordid things that squeal, ‘favour the French, savour the Turks!’
More blogs than can possibly be reasonable is what you preach.
Come, go, rape, sew. It is the Zen.
