Profanity and Prose Poetry

Warning - Abundant profanity

We keep reflecting on the notion, that in some insignificant way, past events amount to more than fucking kindling left naked in the elements, but the shit-dick relevance of a momentary lapse in willpower proves useful when the name of man turns to vapors of piss. It's common fuckin logic. Though few, if any, comprehend the far reaching scope deceit will travel to molest a logical means of preparation. We confide in the space between the tits of history and hope, burrowing into the passions seldom spoken of, suffering the stench of shit in the morning and wipe the ass of daylight with our missteps at dusk. Is it proper to say such things? Perhaps not. But, if every breath is precious then the offensive fucking grunts of savages may prove poetic to those who would dare comprehend expressions made innocent but ill advised. We will fight it, however, with a ravenous pack mentality until every cocksucker we know falls in line to the proper way of things. Sometimes, honestly offends; we are really fucking honest, but it's not generally accepted. It's comical how a slight twitch of tongue separates the righteous from the deprived. In case your curiosity has beckoned the question, then yes, I'm laughing pretty fucking hard in my picturesque descent into what it is to feel and breathe beyond limits made legal by the dead and their customs. Those cunts who not only established language, but made every evil fucking effort to limit its use and thereby exalt a smaller grasp as having superiority for the sake of fucking decency. Sailors, who epitomize the use of such words, still do so on an ocean so beautiful it may very well solicit expressions powerful enough to carry sound above the waves. And the fucking beauty of it, and life for that matter, compels me to use every word in my pitiful fucking attempts to describe them. Last I checked, and the shit occurs quite often, a curse was made to ruin the day of another. And I wish you fucking well. I write these words as I sit on the edge of the day, peering into veil of night as it rushes the fuck in, smelling of roses and heat. The fireflies are shining their asses and it feels like the sky has come down to take me in the damn midst of it. And I feel compelled to curse. Because it's beyond me to contain my meager fucking appreciation for every breath. So, let's write some fuckin poetry and prose.