Bulma Vegeta Episodes

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator


Anne Sexton, one of the poets criticized and praised for his confessional style, to show his poetry matters more intense, intimate and everyday women.
I leave some of his work, The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator, Pig and The Murderer.


The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator

At the end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
outside the tribe of myself my breath
miss you. Horror
to those present. I am satisfied.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now it is mine.
not too far. It's my game.
beat her like a bell.
I stop at the roundabout where you used to mount.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
in which each partner
mixture with a joint overturning, beneath, above, the abundant two
foam and feather, kneeling and pushing
, head to head.
night, alone, I marry the bed.

This escape from my body,
an annoying miracle could put on display
market dreams?
I unfold. Crucify.
My little plum you said.
night, alone, I marry the bed.

rival Then came my dark eyes.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
in the fingertips a piano
shame on the lips and a voice recorder.
Meanwhile, I became the broom used.
night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you
a woman takes a bargain dress off a rack
and I broke a stone breaks.
I give back your books and your fishing pole.
The newspaper today says that you are wed.
night, alone, I marry the bed.

Boys and girls are one tonight.
is unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
shoes are removed. Turn off the light.
glittering creatures are full of lies.
They eat each other. Are more overfed.
night, alone, I marry the bed.

Pork

machine Oh you brown bacon,
how sweet you lie,
fatter one and half pounds per day,
you, pair of socks rolled up,
you, nightmare dog,
you, with the flattened nose
but extended ears, your eyes soft
as eggs, pork
, big as a cannon, how sweet you lie
.

At night I lie in my bed
in the closet of my mind and tell
pigs in a pen
brown, speckled, white, pink, black,
advance by the shuttle to death
the same way that my mind moves
seeking their own little death.

The Murderer

The correct death is registered.
will satisfy the craving.
My bow is cocked.
My bow is ready.
I am the bullet and hook.
I cocked and ready.
A stalk him before my eyes
as a sculptor.
molding his last look to others.
moved his eyes and cranial vault
to any position. Be

their male and over him with my index.
are a mouth and anus.
I'm in the center of emotion.

A subway train passing through my crossbow. I have a lock

blood and I made it mine.
This man took my hands
your destination and take this gun

newspapers and with my heat I'll take it.

bowed down to me and his veins will
crowd like children ...
Give me your banner and your eye. Give
its rigid frame, his lip.
He is the guilt of my apple and
accompany him home.