Wtf is a rupi kaur, /lit?

I'm working on it, ok? These things take time.

Anyone browing Yea Forums is incapible of writing great literature.

Yeah.
We sang hymns to the gods to calm him down.

I dunno user, I've seen some really good shit on here before.
There's unironically lots of smart people on Yea Forums.

And also not anything like modern poetry

modern poetry wasn't specified
and there's plenty of non-faggy modern poetry

No it’s all gay
>t. Smart Poetry man

>Dugan
>faggy
lol
you ignoramus

>alan dugan
>not a cock hungry beta boi
lol k

ok then

>Jeffers
>faggy

you know Flagons and Apples was originally going to be called Fabgunz and Assholes right?
the man sucks cock user

Rupi kaur is a person

nope
he was a rugged alpha badass
you should try reading him

>lived in the woods in a stone tower he built himself
>not the absolute peak of alphadom

>not recognizing a gay bdsm dungeon when you see it
user, I

an expert on gay BDSM dungeons, I see

you have to immerse yourself in gay to know how to avoid it
I know wha I'm talking about with poetry, I spent four weeks doing gay for pay after reading an ezra pound collection ("pound-" I should've known)
be careful anons, poetry is super gay

nah you're just googling every poet I name
retard

user, how could you possibly assume that I am messing with you- I am truly offended, I insist you take that back

the sun came up
fresh and rosy fingered
it sends light and heat
to us little beans
woman is power
i be happy =)

>There's unironically lots of smart people on Yea Forums.
ever wandered off to /pol/ or /x/?

Striking a male in the testicles provides exhilarating and socially-conscious catharsis, bestowing upon the kicker or puncher an electric satisfaction, a palpable zest for life earned upon the collision of shoe to crotch, whether delivered gracelessly, expertly, even tentatively, maybe hesitating in mid-air and kicking their dangling male bits with a considerably less momentous motion but still with abundant kinetic energy enough to nearly eject the male upwards by his own reflexive protective leap, these sorts of displays long delighting the discrete parlors of upper class nouveau riche American princesses who made “ball-kicking,” “The Sport,” or “Ladies Cricket,” a highly sought-after festivity for the past century or so. European elite were known to inflict all manner of male genital torture, up to and including forced piercings, soundings, burning with silver nitrate or brulee torches, but the forms of pure pugilism and punting, done repeatedly over several well-catered hours, are uniquely American. Among American elite women, ball-kicking festivities are central to whichever special occasion is being celebrated, with no expenses spared for stylistically ornamental stages constructed in the center or forefront of the venue. While European women indulge in carnal violence and brutality with characteristic discretion, exacting their abuse privately with only themselves and the male subject hidden in traditional dungeons or exclusive hotel rooms, their American counterparts make status-waving spectacles of The Sport, competing with yet more towering and luminous parade floats, thematic styles applied to the males’ uniforms, even the design of their snaking and winding queues, the final staircase up to ball-kicking stage, even the scale and genres of fireworks ignited upon the each successful strike, these and vastly many more details make the ceremonial American ball-kicking traditions almost impenetrably complex, being so interwoven in the shifting alliances of voracious elite sex goddesses, dynastic successions, economic upheavals and national ascents and declines.

Quantities of recruited and surreptitiously acquired males are not always instructive, however, some hostesses distinguishing themselves by selecting specific groups highlighting notable traits amongst the males as one might admire a sacrificial lamb’s wool. Maybe invited by a so-connected colleague, or responding to a personal ad in an elite newsletter, or sometimes acquired “from the wild,” by highly esteemed curators, the males at these events rarely know one another, but they were often connected by profession or class or background. The only characteristic that could ever relinquish a male from serving in a ball-kicking ceremony was if it was discovered that he derived any sort of pleasure from those modes of abuse. Clutching their crumpled clothing to their punished crotches, the males have family attorneys spring upon them with iron clad legal agreements to dissuade dissemination of these hallowed traditions, for as discrete and strange as they seem to outsiders, much hinges upon them. One of the grand-nieces of Henry Ford is said to have commissioned Tuscan mink boots through which several electrodes lurked just beneath the fluffy furry vamps. Ample coils of electric cable spindling behind her, she strutted so electrically shod to the stoic line of hook-hung and masked men, each with their legs shackled apart to an obtuse angle to improve accuracy and so put at ease any elite women hesitant about taking to the lofty stage and making a good show of the host’s generous supply of males. And while the electrodes work spectacularly, relinquishing from each male the most forelorn and sorrowful howls of pain, sufferings that caused more than one sauced socialite to faint, the stench of singed mink fur largely evacuated the prominent auditorium purchased for the day’s event, the following day’s gossip insistent upon a porcine smell from electrically cauterized scrotal flesh, a level of carnage and variety of violence received as brutish and less than womanly. Ford’s grand niece would remain sidelined for much of the subsequent ten years as memories of the gruesome event remained foremost in influential circles of American women.

Gets me evertime

Available as the obvious to anyone unafflicted by the autistic spectrum, the default state of women immediately outside the male gaze is to return to a default rapture of lesbian foot buffet, becoming immediately Sapphic and manically paraphilic, all pleasure systems bleating in their throats an abiding craving for those most feminine and unnaturally beautiful wiggling dainties. The astute observer of lesbians will observe the veteran munchers, the leather eaters, their feet are almost always unadorned with polish or glaze but for maybe a remnant tattoo. They know well this natural footward proclivity of the sexually liberated woman who finds herself in exclusively female company: if she's to have any hope of getting her minge munched to satisfaction, she's going to spruce up her vag with some labial cosmetics and leave her feet flesh tone, in the hopes of over-riding the foot fetish insanity that predominates lesbian orgy dynamics

With metronomic inevitability a naturally determined quora of assembled women will suddenly, now free of all men, dive, bolt as if under barrage and fleeing to a foxhole, the nearest shod tootsies that look fetching, knowing they are competing with other ravenous possessed footsluts, grabbing ahold and then tossing behind them, the flats, sandals, heels and sneakers previously hiding the steamy warm treats driving them this mad, the air suddenly crisscrossing parabolas of tumbling shoes, and that some knock into the women, none seem to mind and all smile if they ever wince from the impact. There's a graceful Sapphic Judo to sweeping an ambiguously consenting woman off her feet and onto her butt and, almost always, reclining in submission. Most every woman has these graceful martial moves programmed deep in the most soulful and sexual portions of her brain that come especially alive in these rare moments where brutish, disgusting men finally depart and women's truest natures: generosity, femininity, insatiability, blooms briefly again, bursting from an uncertain oasis recessed under layers of obligation and survival instinct, now yanking off socks and remnant shoes, and caressing their faces, gracing their cheeks and tips of their noses with the soles of their supine partners like they were sampling a luxuriously soft silk. With noises familial to a pious devouring of boiled shellfish, the lesbian foot buffet commences, the default state of women since prehistory, since they wandered in sexually-defined bands of huntresses and their concubines in tow and learned to tend to each others battered feet under bonfire and moonlight.