Sunday, December 30, 2007

Shakespeare: Othello

It is the stink, it is the stink, my God,--
Please do not smell it yourself, you weak hearts!--
It is The Stink. Your mother carries in her parts;
Fills up the loose fit trash bag in her pants.
Bits, rough like unsanded alabaster.
I must try, lest she screw some other friend.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:
And put it out again. My eyes dare not
Look at your mom's acne and open sores
And not arouse me: but put out thy light!
Thou mom's loose cunt of excreting nature,
Stygian heat, tropical wetness, fear.
Fucking your mom is a difficult chore.
I cannot give it vital growth again.
My penis withers: Your mom kills my lust.

original here