P2551 A social shift
A social shift in my shit,
They're carrying red chinese flags.
Hard to tell if that's the mindset,
Or Indian flag fags smoked by lipsticked hags.
The svelte turds resemble holy men,
Holy are shit souls in far more foul holes.
In computer sciencey religious drivel,
Nested and recursive, well rested assholes.
No matter what, they want a shot,
A new home called "refined ass."
Main complaint "language loadshedding,"
And my bizarre interest in spreading smelly gas.
But I tell them, gut connected to the grid,
And bengali, heinous a race of nefarious ass.
Plus there's geometry and physics,
Gaped by the belligerent and chonky cunt class.
I hold my ass cheek as wide as my pride,
And let the shit parade out of my hole.
I feel relieved albeit itchy and famished,
Asshole ready like god's hate spewing soul.
Fetch a fresh fermented drink, I think,
To get the gut gossamer giggling wet.
The cosmopolis of bacteria will takeover,
A new beautiful day for new shit set.
So much more holy will be my hole,
The gods will shit like a whore.
I'll pinch a loaf on the world stage,
For my hideous and new turds, claps for more.
I swing my decrepit dick and balls,
With joy, I praise the holy hemorrhoids.
Shitless and happy I dance and prance,
Blessing my still-to-come holier voids.
P2550 Bolo trala la la - ram ram - vote bandar
Retrogressed to a point the leaders,
A comparison is doing our cousins wrong.
The political party shit slinging scene,
Plays on like an incongruous hindi song.
As a child when in the heat of the heartless sun,
When an ill fitting song would blare.
I felt like a triple fucked whore,
Fire set to her pubic hair.
There's so much bullshit you gag with it,
I sit in loadshedding talking to worms inside.
No right in sight with a deck dealt wrong,
The warm worms are my guide.
Beads of sweat drip on the floor,
I shit in panic mode with thought.
The summer just started,
Inconsiderates in degrees of rot.
Either people are beyond repair,
Or too pious to listen to rational piss.
My mind draws an angry blank.
In the dark I hear the worms hiss.
And what's with the belligerence you ask,
Take a peep outside.
No beyond the paid wagging tails to see,
The shit that's too large to hide.
It's your shit, minister, see!
You're NOT supposed to do the electorate wrong.
But look, here you are, at it again,
Fucking us with your shitty schlong.
Mister leader fuck you very much,
You eat shit and die I say.
I hope generations of dishonest indians,
Get visible cancer wherever they may.
P2548 shitGPT
The sun is hot, we piss a lot,
ShitGPT, father and son, we're a team.
Next we start taking a dump to bury earth,
Holy as hell, we tell our dream.
The smell a tad bad, but we're glad,
The shit will fertilize the toil.
In which soil we'll boil nation heads,
Baked in coils in a lonely foil.
By the jism of jesus's juice, no truce,
With the rest of the grumbling shitbits.
We like to pray honorably by,
Sucking mother mary's holy tits.
This crusade will be of shit and piss,
Projectile cum, diarrhea and vomit hurls.
The moslims and hindoos fondly fingered,
As the shitGPT provocated war unfurls.
Millions of robots dressed as holy cows,
Will shit iftaar diarrhea on hindoo heads.
Billions of revenge robot pigs,
Defecate undigested gita on mollah beds.
Robots hold the hindoo yap open,
For moslims to take a holy shit.
When the hindoo needs the loo,
The moslim mouth yanked open for it.
Thus a spate of hate for an afterlife fate,
The fiendish fools will be finished.
The rest of the fuckwad religious,
Just get their balls painfully squished.
Finally from chastened hubris and balls,
Noodles for robot babies made.
Pious souls are always mouthful,
Good for washing robot menses it is said.
Hollows made in hallowed lands
We scatter the dumb dead.
Our vomit of promise used,
To fuck with the heads of the undead.
India will stream shitting PhD live,
Fake degrees, corruption and masala tipped tits.
Holy singing with jolly twerking,
Bollywood style cunts leaking shits.
Plus we'll stitch the chinese eyes,
That slit needs to see the religious dark.
The world will become a concentration camp,
But we'll call it a god's super holy park.
Nuclear suicide bomb stuffed in putin's ass,
A glory in the goodly godly chapter.
The next coming of jesus fucking christ is shitGPT,
I confer as its sole unknown creator.
P2547 Loadshedding
"Our city is facing unprecedented heat wave. We appeal to all Consumers for judicious use of electrical appliances, to restrict extreme overloading of electrical network and help us serve better."
Received from CESC
It only takes one extended period of loadshedding to bring civilization to a screeching halt. Off go the euphemistic references, to be replaced by sardonic and factual information, often rubbing things in quite roughly. Teeth get bared and spit fly as if like venom, except for the reality that it's mostly a fixture in the mindset of the ambient distemper than anything real. Words don't break bones anymore, especially with the flexibilities offered by several years of experience in trying hard not to. In fact, you'd much rather not maim than aim. A perceptive person usually uses insinuation and rhetoric to get the job done. In Kolkata, the best way to insult anyone is usually to insult yourself, as you are the representative of the buffoonery that's all around anyway. As any astute observer will notice, any piece of wood that is held by screws usually has various types that are not only cosmetically mismatched but also rusty and falling off. All work is shoddy, and if done as a great service to the nation, it deserves gratitude. That plank of wood can be used to hit the head of any officer on duty, and it would be pointed out that you are uncouth and offensive. The so-called engineering task force consists of people drawn at random from a motley crew of madmen with no background in anything that requires a straight line to be drawn or any mathematics to be remembered. I find it humorous that the Americans find that India is such a great catchment area for minds that solve triangles. In fact, it reflects worse on the American system of education than anything to do with India, but I digress. The sad fact is that we as homo sapiens are all the same, hubris notwithstanding. If we don't know, we can find out, and that's really all there is to it. But we spend all this time looking for the wrong ladder, while I'm suffering the 43C heat in Kolkata, muttering invectives that I can't print for the same pretentious reasons why we still think there's an angry old man sitting on the cloud registering outrage as he counts the number of times I used the wrong words.
The fact that we are running out of sustainable power options is as clear as the solar panels that await us. I know it's not yet a practical or financially feasible solution, but we need to go off the grid, as there's not going to be one for long. Hopefully people will heed this warning discomfort and try to figure out alternative ways to make do, otherwise the 330 million gods won't be enough to answer to the sweating woes of sweltering holy but unbearable land, erstwhile India.
P2545 Scarecrow
What weighs on my head, are the eviscerated dead,
Fellows forgotten and forlorn.
I meet my future at my funeral,
Or my past before I was born.
Bones and flesh walking fresh,
Gaping wound going about its day.
Blood bloom in the night a purple,
I'm sure I never want to stay.
In the darkness I drool like the common fool,
The night is my refuge from the light.
I hide, I can't confide, my splintered sides,
I run from prying sight.
Crap the cretin, vexed the vermin,
It's all in the game whispers an owl.
The hemlock my dear is in the cock,
But first must fuck the fowl.
Layers of lollipop, lol, fucked coal,
By million times better shit.
No wonder my shit stains are indelible,
Must be, yes, that's fucking it.
I feel the heat searing hot, apples rot,
I feel the madness return.
Soon I'll be back on those corny corn fields,
My role as the scarecrow of social scum.
There shit fuck thunderstruck, super holy my luck,
I'll fill the abyss with my piss rain.
Drowning my sorrow will be enemy assholes,
Whose families won't ever miss them again.
When a caldera pops no fuming tops,
The mountain, hills and valleys are all blown.
Likewise the simmering rage is boiling where,
Every known bone will ache and groan.
P2540 Holy my cum
Holy my cum, yummy yum yum,
Just like the gods want.
Creamy and green, glimmering thing,
Only if a miss could spare a cunt.
Most of the days it's watermelony,
No sperm fit to swim or fret.
Anyway these are lazy bengali sperms,
Alive only when you flush the toilet.
Porn has lost its childhood charm,
In fact the entire platform of cunts.
Just a double slit experiment,
My dick no longer wants.
So it's down to fingering the asshole,
And praying to god's pubic cone.
Visualizing how gods fuck, helps,
Naked in hell fire and brimstone.
Grinning gay gods gaping games,
A favorite of a hindoo fanatic like me.
I always inspected behind the idols,
And fingered their asshole to see.
Woody the woodpecker had a chequered past,
A shriveled profile to boot.
But the nipples are hyper-sensitive,
They are black as soot.
The asshole was once pink and pollyannaish,
Now only brown, puckered and morose.
It's more about futility, farts and shits,
Than figuratives of penetrative prose.
Now I orgasm when I shit, something holy about it,
I hear the gods fart in unison.
Less likely I have approval from mortals,
Who'd deem it as a sex con.
When I was sixteen I could cum sixteen,
And that too in a day.
Now once a month, then it'll be a year,
I'll be dead this coming may.
Soon one day the sperm will,
March out one at a time in piss.
I'll teach local kids how to count,
Based on just this.
Thus will end my suffering,
From the cycle of eat and shit.
One day I'll turn into a turd,
And well, that's it.
P2539 A bird watcher
A bird watcher, tad wide, I confide,
But this city has built benches cheap.
"Make in India" fucks duck ass,
Now I look like a creep.
The state and country run by goons,
Centralized dick and decentralized cunt.
My throat runs quickly dry when I try, to get up,
But traditionally I mustn't and I shan't.
In this status anxiety bengalis go potty,
With onus to blame invisible beings.
Thus I'm unable as you can tell,
I pray to the foreskin of jesus in saturn's rings.
Fake degrees galore mostly ordinary whores,
Now at the helm of this or that.
I gain weight trying to keep my shit straight,
You can't really call me fat.
I sit, I sit, then I shit,
It oozes out of me like toothpaste.
330 million hindoo gods to clean up,
In my nature there's no haste.
Podgy hotch potch my shit like butter scotch,
Creamy and with bubbles of bengali stink.
My rice always fried, ghee from cow tits,,
The cow is holy, it's piss I also drink.
The chicks hate my body odor,
Somehow they can smell my asshole.
How nasty their thinking,
When I am a pure unadulterated soul.
The gods piss me off too,
They get all the good food.
Food is all I care about,
Already famished, eat, yes I could.
P2537 Happy Birthday to Me, April 16 1975.
48 years ago on 16th April,
A little piece of shit was born.
He was boring out of the box,
But he did really like porn.
This was mister suvrotica,
The legendary asshole who stinks.
Culture is what people do when no one's looking,
He's less arrogant if his turd sinks.
Cunts and can'ts don't like him,
Dishonest people fear his schlong.
His dick is short but ridden with ills,
The list of diseases is very long.
Shit fucking smart, shit spraying fart,
"Hello" he says to the unholy unwelcome.
Tit for tat, he shits in bloody twats,
On-your-face holy cumin seed cum.
Always a bladder full for gods,
Religious people pisses him off.
The scourge for holy debates,
He shits in their mouth through a trough.
Currently persevering on a book of curse,
Which after his death will release.
Each word as shit hit the nearest fan,
And choke enemy anuses with disease.
He doesn't have any friends living near,
Most in kolkata are jealous kith and kin.
These are shit stains of satan,
Piss and spit bubbles of sin.
Only fat infants tolerate him some,
Owing to loose shit in their pants.
They eat glamorous portions,
While he sits there and rants.
His pubic lice is not very nice,
Nor are the pesky worms in his asshole.
He takes a bath once a leap year,
Or when the devil renews his soul.
In this season of mango and hope,
His diarrhea hits the floor flat with a splat.
The heat has got to his head, it is said,
He talks to himself alone in his flat.
In a drum he stores his cooked cum,
Scum deletes most of his forlorn progeny.
His DNA will be useful for nefarious uses,
Untold truthful miseries for many.
Anyone he did right, always did him wrong,
Now in tattered loin cloth he knows.
The world is a selfish festering cancer,
An endless tumor of pimps and hoes.
He now shows his asshole to the world,
And poots his hate on it's face.
He has a litany of reasons to be mad,
He carries a full briefcase.
His shit smells bad and his vomit too,
On this day, masturbate, he swears he'd try.
He lives in a slum on a shit hill,
Today he'd try to get birthday high.
Super holy and sticky his birthday shit,
Preserved with his fart and stale piss.
Bottles will go on sale, wholesale,
Rush, an offer you don't want to miss.
P2532 I shit you not
I shit you not, it's so hot,
The sun has lost its mind.
I'll give an arm and leg for a peg,
Or maybe two, and cool off my rind.
Yeah just get drunk and dehydrated,
And then dead from bootleg beat.
Kolkata is renowned for methyl,
And cheap shit that kills like the heat.
Someone said it's the new year's heat,
Like the fresh hooker's diarrhea.
The comfort of fucking that warm ass,
And thinking sodomy a panacea.
The heat is getting hot I can tell,
Fireworks and fires everywhere.
The bells of hell, hello miss smells,
That's Calvin Klein I swear.
My piss is dry, I feel like a fry,
My shit has become fart in this heat.
Too bad the gods are indoors,
Their made up miasma needed a treat.
The ground is hot, the round bengali girls not,
I've stopped looking at their game.
Full of sand their cunts and belligerence,
I pity the ones getting married to them.
I wait for night, for blight,
The rainbow in a spectrum not visible.
It's really all in my mind, heat is not kind,
I see the bubbles in my brain cell.
An overpopulation of mindless folks,
A city of coy for the rotund.
Unplanned stickers of mirth fill the void,
Depravities never run out of fund.
P2530 Bengali new year
A decapitated dick and remnant piss,
The balls look too good.
The bengali race is dead,
I feast on their balls for food.
It's the bengali new year,
Time for the rich to get diabetic.
Their narcissistic shit smells sweet,
Lies become insistent and pathetic.
The poor of course have no festivals,
They have no celebratory race.
They are fucked in their ass and luck,
And in the April, heat-fucked in the face.
Not many years ago,
The moguls fucked the bengali ass with a plough. *
Moguls are erased from syllabus now,
But we celebrate their shadow somehow.
Time to dress up the pubic parts,
Poles and holes look alike.
Powdered fool with gold rush drool,
The leaders blaring the mic.
All assholes in degrees of growth,
Selfish and motivated by coins.
Bengal today is fucked beyond repair,
No cloth to cover the lurid loins.
New year, new gods and new scams,
Bengal now synonym for deceit.
Just open your mouth wide open,
A city full of sweet bengali shit.
An overpowering stench of gods,
Their shit smeared on the walls near.
Soulless hollow masks for people,
Celebrate with rancid cheer.
A galumphing gargantuan grotesque race,
Proud of a past faint as air.
It's the fart that's an art in it's after thought,
When the shit loses its flair.
Every year a travesty of excuses,
There's no scruples, conscience or guilt.
Like the bath of a sonagachhi whore,
All superficial paint job and stilt.
Happy new year everyone,
Hopefully you shit well this year.
Hope is a hoax that I try to coax,
After the first turd head is clear.
*The history of the Bengali New Year dates back to the Mughal Empire in India. Emperor Akbar, who reigned from 1556 to 1605, introduced the Bengali calendar in 1584 AD (963 AH) to streamline tax collection in the region known as Bengal, which was then under Mughal rule. The Bengali calendar was based on a combination of the Islamic Hijri calendar and the Hindu solar calendar.
This coincide with ramadan, which is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, during which Muslims observe a month-long period of fasting and spiritual reflection. The word "Ramadan" is derived from the Arabic word "Ramad," which means scorching heat, and it is believed that this month is so named because it was during this month that the Quran was first revealed to the Prophet Muhammad.
Originally, the Bengali calendar followed the lunar cycle, with the new year falling on the first day of the month of Muharram in the Islamic calendar. However, due to inconsistencies between the lunar and solar calendars, agricultural activities and tax collection became challenging. To resolve these issues, the Bengali calendar was reformed by Amartya Ray, a renowned astronomer of the time, during Akbar's reign. The reformed calendar, known as the 'Fasli San,' followed the solar cycle, and the new year began on the first day of the month of Boishakh.
P2527 I studied hard
I studied hard, now a retard,
Education is a scam, thank you ma'am.
I shouldn't have paid attention in school,
My life now a bamboo wham bam.
I could've been a goon, fed with spoon,
By the governments for their misdeeds spree.
Truthful and honest an expensive pest,
No one wants such labors even for free.
Were I gullible, I could spread, until dead,
The word of god,
That's a velcro that needs new spin,
But me as a choice is odd.
I'll die dry and hungry for knowledge,
My eternal quest for more.
I think about all this, as I sketch,
The next shit fucking whore.
I've gone mad they say,
Some say at dawn I bite.
That's good morning to my fans,
A little something for their spite.
Certainly I've lost my mind,
Who wouldn't in my place.
I've been in the most unkind crannies,
And nooks where live kooks with hideous faces.
I won't be alive for long,
Loneliness kills fast.
But I'd still rather stay outside,
Judging by my past.
P2526 How pretty this hole
How pretty this hole, and holy too,
Favorite of the gods that give pain.
It's my asshole in case your english is weak,
Shit, fart, and pleasure to gain.
Wellspring of civilization it is,
A partner to piss spout on the side.
The balls are hairy and heavy,
I say this with a lot of male pride.
I look in the mirror and say hello to my hole,
No miss wants to kiss.
I live on a mountain by the sun,
The river is really my piss.
The sun is hot, diarrhea in a pot,
Was the result of this heat.
Holiest the best whose shit passes god's test,
The winner sucks god's teat.
My future right in the blight,
Horny the worms in my asshole.
They make love to each other,
While I scratch the bloody hole.
The dump today was good,
It was a gigantic turd pile.
The smell was bad, the gods went mad,
Now I rest for a while.
P2525 I w...
I will keep writing even as a ghost,
For those planning my murderous end.
My pen will keep on moving as if by wind,
No power can my will bend.
Truth hurts I know, baby,
And I am a spiny porcupine.
I've digested enough bullshit in this life,
Guaranteed not to be fine.
The alliteration rattling in your head, you wet your bed,
The prose verbose, characters gross.
The low class lurid I find alluring,
Can't deny I am a nihilistic force.
So fuck you all, and fuck everything,
I can't wait to start to hate anew.
There's no energy in many possibilities,
As there are in few.
So I have no faith in concensus,
Especially that wrought by fools.
I'd rather live by my own rules,
In a cave built from my own tools.
P2551 Suck my tongue
Suck my tongue, hurry my son,
The heaven will reward you.
It will be a membership to my tribe,
Your future will be stew.
Onstage tongue, behind dung,
Yes my asshole you naughty boy.
Your job to clean it after,
I play with my favorite toy.
For the uninformed this be known,
It's really the ass from which god is pulled out.
Traditionally gullible boys and women thus,
Divinely selected as fit scout.
You'll learn all kinds of monastic shit,
Things that'll make you like me.
Your holes will be mine and your will,
Now do you see?
Instead of milk you get very high holiness holy cum,
Very thick and creamy you'd love the taste.
In this famine of social motivations,
You brush with my holy shit paste.
I'll frequently finger you fondly,
But my men may be rough at times.
We just say peaceful confusing things,
To allay the fear of retributive crimes.
There's nothing supernatural,
It's always poles and holes.
Throw in power and mercenaries,
To heaven goes the shit-faced souls.
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