file:///C:/Users/Robben%20Wendy%20Wainer/Desktop/An%20Ancient%20yoga.pdf

A Somber Moment for a Love and a Knack for Servitude

 

Mrs. Omachas first class

A Screenplay by Robben

Ms. Omachas first day of teaching class was tommorow. She had left me in frustrations, stressed out and enriched with solace. Stan and Brad were holding her hands, and kind of moving in flux trying to reinvent themselves. Sarah was more than Queen Isabella, she was radiant beneath cunning roses. And more sensible than taking her couragous tapes so assumptuosly.

Stan flinched, and received a kiss. Brad reached for a Morning Star.

"I want you Madly," she spoke as the three conferred.

There was a short breathe, and study, the lights were out, Brads thought that a child would yelp, in the best of times were actually the worst of times in her company, and created a problem. She really wanted the best, would get the best and not compromise. myself, I just watched the loss of my childhood go.

"Tantric Stan, and learn from me soulmates."

Said Ms. Omacha, and her precludes to merely greet Her girl.

Her findings were oaths were given, and all the same. Sarah came to almost cunnigly, shreer beguilement and leisure left her in need of precision. Liberty in her mind was the fact that Hollyood Performanced may be the worst qualification for a work acquistion in her field.

" The door shall be open, there is now nothing more to trope. I have a friend, who helps with tasting my shit for dependencies. I have to go, or he his thoughts of me pissingly will fail in the long run loves, all is well with me now the door is what is open, I am leaving."

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Insight

A Stage Play by Robben

 

The causal reasons to consume my Dominitrices shit

 

Everyone is accountable for at least a task. I used my income to watch her cum, but in a way that she would be willing to pee on my wardrobe. Upon greeting Ms. Sarah with as much as a dear, she with angelic gace wrapped her knuckle clenched to my Jaw. During times when her dozen lovers all said their oath to cum with her ownership of them, Mrs. Omacha removed the clothing from her buttocks.

" if only your source of hygiene in wiping were my moist mouth consuming your bowel." I said

Her brave scent of her shit permeated my nostrils just then.

"I have paid too little for such bravery, I will eat your feces according to your will" I said.

"According to What" mrs.Omacha said leaping from her seat. The white crane by her side, let in the curious eulogy. The door rasped with Carl and Carlos swinging on the panel. My orgasm had stopped, as Mrs Omacha sat perturbed knowing i would one day know courses of a meal again.

"Are the others here to hurt me? I asked

"No slave," she said but that time is near you see, my sexual intimates have't all obeyed rules the way I wish them to be. Do not strike bargains with me now." She said.
Tilting my head in arousal,to be far from edible plants and animal. It was my time to leave. Mrs Sarah Omacha sowed haste and perfect aggressivenes in my exit. When her accountability was having three men have sexual entrance into her bladder at a time.

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Position

A Stage Play by Robben

 

Understanding Roles

 

The kitchen had an effervescent dim glow, a wine bottle was half empty and two wine glasses sat on the table empty, Donald had purchased lilacs and sunflowers for Mrs. Sarah, as they now were the decor in a vase. Mrs Sarah came out of the bedroom a little more moist than usual, wearing lingerie that left her nipples bare. Donald came out wiping the gushing pain off his cheeks, as  she stood there ready to hold Donald in her confidence.

 " Donald do you see now I am ready, and used to the worship.

  Said Mrs Omacha. 

"I wish I could have been more successful in convincing you of my heart." Said Donald 

"I was hurting you violently, and inflicting you with pain." Said Sarah Omacha, "How do you feel now, do you have any  doubts" 

"No Sarah I will serve your will,  let thy will for me be done." Said Donald

It was 8:30 in the evening I had just rang the bell. Mr's Omacha, opened the door and waved a hand in my my pre mature dismissal of being respectable. Mr's Omacha welcomed me into the kitchen, she graciously punched me in the lip, to see if there were any further questions of my risen faith, all spirits now ascending in her asshole. "I was screwing someone else." She said and put on a tee shirt over her lingerie.

"Then, in your own words what is your role and position in life.

"I am to live my life for you, and die to become your shit at your will, and my life will have no other meaning but as your servant, slave, and concubine.

"That' right, but there is something else. Donald don't get dressed just come out."

Donald came out of the other room fully naked.

"Shit." Said Mrs. Sarah addressing me, " to please me I want you to have same sex intercourse. I want many men to ride your door, and for you to deepthroat their Shaft until they cum in your mouth.

" I suppose I can understand why. " I said to Mrs. Sarah.

Mrs. Sara grasped my head in the palm of her head , and with  a trill in her voice, gave the instructions to French Kiss Donald's Shaft. As the head of Donald's cock, and half his organ were in my frothy mouth. Mr's Sarah gave the order to deep throat, as cum was gathering on my lips, Donald released and squirted stream after stream of cum in my throat. "Now Shit." Said Mrs. Omacha "swallow it."

"This has to be the way it is between us." said  Sarah

"This is the way it is both now and forever. I said still swallowing Donald's Cum

© 2022 Robben

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Complections

A Stage Play by Robben

 

Liberated Brotherhood, and Mrs. Omachas literal Surname

 

Withstanding the temptation to deface, as Ms. Sarah; Ms. Poppish ignited a liberal intercession, having an incestuos intercourse, now with two black brothers. They listened, is it sensible to believe men are gay for Ms. Omacha. Does the smell of floral hebs suggest that our families need play sodomy with each other. If there ever was a time that her men came to her with issues of pleasuring her with Kink and Masochism, is what Mrs. Omacha may consider a breach amongst regroupment with homosexuality, as to be very public about it in her name was preferred.

" If by chance I am not your dying word. I Prithee not to spread such carnevorous disease." Said Mrs Omacha.

"My refrain from a service to you may displeasure you." Said Antwan.

"Perhaps," said Sarah, " but much less than your becoming a thief has done."

Alas there was a hiatus, ontop a hilltop, a field of pansies, and a non fictitious thought. Seven years of touching butterfles in the stomach with nervy cravings of zeal possessed, Mrs Sarah Omacha who saw the days of witchcraft, but as creatable somehow into an artistry of her counting on her men to submit to pain. I have toiled eating Mrs. Poppish' shit in the realms of my fantasies, and reality for fifteen years. Denial would be an act of considering myself other than one gay boy amidst numbers, now of Mrs. Sarah Omacha's homosexual addresses and figures. Sharing now her misgivings, and our need for her to own us as possesions.
Mrs. Omacha french kissed Antwan and his brother, and "Said who knows we can see where this leads you two from here."

© 2021 R

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The Mandala

A Stage Play by Robben

At the time postcards were arrayed in arms reach about her table. Mr's Omacha's pure leitmotif spun a kind of Heirloom, around Phillip, and Jack; two siblings, who had barely outgrown their pains, in time to praise her walk through their epiphanies. In an air of cumin and lemon. Her pursuit of her Mandala to rectify the fraternity, was coupled with a woman's authority who leaves her bedside only for  a fee. These are, and were the premises Mrs. Sarah Omacha hurried me into, and helmed me in, and cauffined me to with vehemence. While Jack, and Phillip had tilted the drops of perfume Mrs. Omacha persed to her postcards. Te martyrd duality of those who were left to pay Mrs. Sarah their Honor, she whose cleavage now leaked  a pure jasmine ointment to wet her lips.

Putting the postacards perfumed in her dresser table. She became ready for  a visit from Phillip, who could not see her eyes as anything that did not come from the Goddess Isis. He melted in her cleavage as his tongue swallowed her hard nipple for ten minutes, she climaxed but did not believe he could take it alone. Maybe she related Phillip to my experience, maybe to Jacks, whose perfect member always left the musk in her hair, and the musk that permeated even my eyes, in the cirque de toilette Mrs. Omacha pampered me to adopt. 

"Your lips are so juicy, they make me sweat." Said Phillip to to Mrs. Sarah, who still was not impressed until she undid his pants and could see his balls with an erect shaft.

"I need you to to show me how you want it." Said Phillp.

""Practicing the art of  a libido?" asked Jack.

"Well no, I am not immature." said Phillip, as Mrs Sarah, took down his pants, and placed a warmed  palm to his cock and gingerly and eagerly spurred, and stroked him forward, Mrs. Sarah pressed her fingers to his balls, as Phillip shot a hot fire stream of pure sperm on the kitchen floor.

  To be the tete' de forte. Said Jack.

I walked in at that moment, reaching for an expression like a Mozart Soprano to fit the sentiment.

"His robes are know filled with the succor of a Prince." I said, but also becoming an easy target for Sara's unbridling, and clenched hand to my rib to aid me, in my losing pride. 

"Oh goodbye sweethearts." Mr's Sarah, said to Phillip. "Just let yourself be me at rest."

 Jack left in abidance with his soul mate. I have to discuss these matters with him now. A slaves mind, with a gay heart and his embracing thoughts. I shall never rescue him, or indeed would, but I need to see him now, as she dismissed her lovers triangle to seize a reign to throttle my mouth with.

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I Two the Sandbox

A Stage Play by Robben

Act 1, Scene 2

The rain was bountiful, the sun was bountiful, and Sarah's clentele was bountiful. By now, Sarah had disciplined my with vengeance as much as any one else In my past, so much that I fantasized about her knuckles, and wrists, and made love to the bones in her waist. It felt bittersweet, but to her clientelle. sarah was the dew, when it drizzled, the sun on browning skin, as her whispers promised  to our consent that we could live our lives as her homosexuals. By now the eastern winds, held her back straight, as pride was an issue in it's cause and effect, that maybe attributed by a will to live, and a will to decide one's fate, yes to be her excretion, but also for understanding that there were also other issues, she may have with me as her slave.

"When you stop believing you are right for women, You'll earn your vows." Said Sarah.

   "I am still a little dizzy right now I" I Said, " but I am willing to consecrate to to them."

 With a brief reminder she can help me Mr's Omacha undid her jeans, and fetched me her excretion, that I would consume. This was the hiatus, the rainbow was the movement she excreted.

     "I must now go meet Gregg, I am having sex with him, does that bring up any thoughts in you " Said Mrs. Omacha

I turned towards the door, having eaten of her jeans. Hoping she would not make Gregg feel used or abused, while in my heart that possibility prevailed in my thoughts, like  a cloud of billowy reticience, ascending into the temple of Sara's anus.

Gregg was a man who was never mastricised, or wrapped up in Sarah's hand as a small prey to a bug. Gregg was still pushy, yet immasculate. I would absorb even his sperm with harm, that night, but Sara introduced him to me as something I am not.

"Shalom my sweet dove." said Gregg.

" How are you with women, it is that way with some you know."

"You have the Body of Pallas Athena, and are as fresh as the mountain air.

" I have more tasks to assign my slave, you see to women he was once their thoughts." Said Sarah.

"I  can only offer you my salary." Said Gregg."

" Well for my cleavage that's fine." Said sarah.

Mr's Sarah Omacha once did not shave her armpits when in my presence. like  a glass of exotic succor, I became irrational, alost wishing to contact NASA to see Venus from a telescope, also wishing to end corruption, and counting on the good of boy friends to find it in me not to gamble. Mr's Sarah had armpits that bristled a kind of brunette majic, a kind of ginger Beer, and Coconut Water, that dispelled demons, by reminding me I was beneath her from birth to death under any, and every conceivable circumstances. The Clove scented bristle of armpit hair that Mrs Omacha fed my salivary glands with, and became for me what I understood as conflicts between good and evil. it would be a week, befor my fantasies would become less of  an imperative, and wet about her sweaty armpits, before any real goals could be set again.

 

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The Dawn

A Stage Play by Robben

 

Last act in which Mrs. Omacha's slave commits suicide

 

There was a chill in the air, as a frosty frothy surface was seen creeping up to the window. I entered Mrs. Sarah Omacha's parlor

and courtsied.

"Mrs. Omacha, the time is now." I said, "I must die for you."

"What of fate, what of destiny." Said Mrs. Omacha.

""That I have only lived to become your being the time is now." I said

"Step this way." Said Mrs. Omacha.  

Mrs. Sarah brought me to a closet where inside was a dung filled sack cloth with cyanide. " First you will open your wrists  then I will  tie you up inside, the cyanide will eat you alive, and you will only exist as a part of me." Said Sarah Omacha.

The razor was sharp I took it to my wrists, feeling the last pulses of my life I felt Mrs. Sarah Omacha tie up the bag.

The room was smoky, the odor was cancerous, when Mr's Omacha undid the sackcloth, there was no evidence of a body ever having been present.

The fumes seemed to enter her nostrils. There were no traces of there having been a life, no dung, and no corpse. A siren sounded outside then went away. Mrs. Omacha made her way to the toilet "now you are just this as one with me." Mr's Omacha hummed as she fingered her asshole, and excreted the last of my presences into the toilet bowl.  

 

An Ancient Yoga

In a Temple of Ancient Yoga
A Poem by Robben 

Love Poem

 "In a Temple of Ancient Yoga"

Perhaps I am a woman who has faith in what she hopes to gain,and who sees the endings of epochs with a sudden tease.We've believed me to be useless upon your shores,as Odysseus must have been on Calypso's island.Yet you move the sun and moon,that the days when I could see a hope that was not homosexual,diminished as you lit the room,for one who encompasses something other than magic,like a nymph who sleeps between day and nightwith a candle shining a celestial path for one's heartbreak to view an interlude, of a woman's mystery who culminates in a fountain of youth.To you I am a woman, even your daughter,you are more saintly as I cry to you my heavenly Father,who moves mountains when heroes fall, as the traces of a smile can be sentimental.With  a fragrance of  a natural calling of the language of waves.as girls can be neglected by their mother's at times.let all evil and temptation be removed,perhaps I do provoke and invite you my Father,as easily as my natal innocence surrenders to your past.You are my past, present and future,let peace be still, it be not the waste.Yes, I still wish for your asshole,the yellow and white cheeks openingto a haven that makes my life and even my death sublimely sweet,It is a garden  of nourishing rainbows,and the passage and passing through of ancient yoga in the temple.My boundaries break, when you knowI art though gay.that perhaps if only in testimony I dream of you what I wish for me,but your ass holds memories of sudden tears for me,you and I, other men, perhaps in gossip, or in myth.I will ask you to forgive again,only for you to know I am your seat again.What tears of sadness befall me,as you are my lord and my rock,whose woman's work is only to make it clear,that to be spell boundand possessed by  a womb is not the way.Yet If I may speak to you as  my Lord and my Mother,It will take every task to hope these emotions cease,since I being possessed by your grace and charm,wish only to be undone by your threshold,of blessing in who we are and how we viewthe worthiness of this, a passage in my dreams. 





A Shining Pearl
A Poem by Robben 

Love Poem, Erotica

 

The Shining White Pearl

Beneath your waist the Earth and Heavens move.As your final movement wills my ego by your release.Men say Transitions are created from women.My mother Wanted it all too end.My Father just didn't care.That may our life with competition reach an end.Me your strange woman,Your elektra,your concubine.To ask myself the question of who am I?I hope to be the shimmering white pearl of your asshole,To wet your licorice ambrosia with my lips.That my soul would behold the power of the beauty,of your golden asshole, and all which it contains.You contain me,in you choice of words,once almost half male,a creature beneath you eyelid,whose wisdom consoles,my life in death,the breadth which your sphincter and it's ducts.can will me to live my life in this fulfillment,of life in which my death concedes.I wish for none other,but that which you release,from your ass, the shining white pearl,of wisdom and grace.





As Women Conversing and Sharing
A Poem by Robben 

Love Poem

 

As women we sit in council and converse,
about fortunes, intuition, reason and destiny.
Women know the story of religion,
begins with male fear of the female sex,
That to begin the war with one's paternal right,
was one half witted's solace in his evil scheme.
And yet where was I yesterday,
that I won't renew and rejuvenate,
when perceiving my thoughts to be contained in your buttocks,
that as your thighs twitter
by the break of your ass
what rule is there that I would not know it's nectar.
As women close their eyes in disbelief,
at the disarray men tarry
who will not serve each other's body,
severed from it, as though a broken promise, to feel no pleasure,
no pains, and no gain.
Your asshole is a golden halo around my psyche,
that to live by what you profess is my sensitivity.
Your asshole is my song of hope which contains my ascension into heaven in this life,
and what of this reason to state in my sincere awakening.
I am the energy and movement of your organs.
Why would you not say that to me,
that I am, and will only be your shit,
Why play games with proper names
when to call me your shit are my thoughts of reason.
To please you now is an act of contrition,
for one who loves your ass,
and whom you may call  your shit well spoken of.



I Sense the Divine
A Poem by Robben

I cannot just come, and go as I please anymore.
Like the petal of an iris
I rest in the palm of your hand.
When girls speak of faith
we speak of acceptance,
a surrender of will
to your nocturnal choosing.
I beg you to hear my plea,
to serve thee as my master and  my Lord
to know only what your will is for me
would be my desire as your disciple.
that I may be the choice of one hundred men
I would submit to them a need,
to insert their shaft,
what of music, and with it an ode to destiny.
My senses only wish to know your ass.
To see your asshole, and know that I am one,
whole and in harmony with a spherical God.
Only to touch your asshole as  a woman,
that I send it as a holy blessing of my martyrdom.
To smell your asshole,
to me is a garden  of the noses flora.
and to taste your asshole
is to know the wonders of the stars, and the passions themselves.
It is your ass which then is my experience,
of mind, body and spirit,
even more of my own conception.
As I can almost taste your shit
you are creating in me
a woman whose only libido
is to be the freed spirit of a heart that will submit
to love your asshole and shit as a sense of self,
and a song of our empowerment. 





Conception of the World
A Poem by Robben 

A love poem

 

My Mother was not saved from her conflict with struggle,
Through her suffrage she could not know her self.
As jealousy and envy are a refuge with men,
I surrender to their taste in your pee.
As Nature and Nurture dispel our threats,
who as a woman, you've replaced from my shadow.
I either want to get old,
or enjoy the maturity,
with the passion and vitality of our excretion.
In my nature you find me your lesbian,
a clitoris that knows no denial,
perhaps too open to know the world,
your asshole unites with your beauty.
To describe a universe that communicates the spirit,
that motivates with the certainty of a rainbow,
Perhaps I am a waiting for you to initiate
a kiss with your asshole in complete surrender.
How nurture is the lesson of the Gods.
I speak to you as Aphrodite without reserve,
that when to immerse myself in your company,
implies the combination of mind and heart.
To bring me into this world with the shit you release,
as yours to me spells the pleasures of the world.
You keep me chaste knowing the beauty of your asshole,
when to taste your shit would complete  my fixation,
to be at one with the universe,
to never have another thought accept the truth within,
that I now see in accordance to your will,
as all of our grief undefiled,
that I am willed to praise in certainty,
the agape and the Eros of the shit you release from your asshole.





Nourished to Ecstasy
A Poem by Robben 

A love poem

 

I must fall short of the lead,
when to speak of my hunger
is rationed with so many fads and trends.
But to show myself in your midst
the unseen passage of your door,
are the artichokes and whole greens
that from your asshole remove me from the suffrage,
as the fruits and vegetables,
the chaff in the crevices of your asshole,
will only bring me delight,
as I may one day start to fade through, and in you, while you shit.
That imagination can be celestial,
and the spirit of dreams awaken to heaven.
I too may leave traces of my spirit to be inserted in your asshole,
that when you shit and pee
you remember my voice and look,
who holds these thoughts closely to her heart.
As Apollos lyre  sings to us,
your asshole fulfills the awakening of Emmanuel,
That Oranges, Pears, and Strawberry,
press who I am as I taste only you, in your shit and pee,
that the ocean of your sphincter,
brings thoughts and feelings to the surface of the sea,
but do I drown, no,
but stay mesmerized, and daydream
of what meaningful pleasure there is in your asshole.
Which is also all of me,
as my heart  begins and ends my being.
when as told  I may suffer through the loss of seeing my fate,
that I know is your asshole,
you feel the warmth of my internal good will as my destiny,
if you decide you shit and pee what truth and loyalty,
that I invite you to raise in my body with all earnest.




A Truth, I send Her.
A Poem by Robben 

A love Poem

 

 I see the world as an evolving creation,
and know I have easily been given to many temptations.
I am female by persuasion,
having scruples to incarnate into her flesh sending her.
She is Mrs. Popish, she is my mentor and my parent,
I am obedient as she considers how my sexuality shall be expressed.
in innocence, I almost sense Mrs.Popish's asshole wiggle
and instill in me the intention of my behavior,
That one day her asshole will wiggle and almost giggle with shit and pee,
thinking of the life I lived for her.
I curl in her lap,
a little sore from masturbation wishing to experience her assholes tituary contractions,
I am whole in sending her,
Mr's Popish may decide to affirm my intention
and refer to me as her send.
Her wisdom teaches me to let her asshole,
become for me an experience, strength and hope.
As she shits and pees my spiritual life is born,
I have an emotional recovery.
In the way of my Dowry's innocence,
It pleases Mrs' Popish when I swallow a man's shaft,
believing once in a male order.
In a world filled with light and dark,
I am inclined to try fewer things,
to understand  that to spend each moment of breathe,
in all that her asshole contains is profound,
and speaks to women and sisters in a way that is gifted.
Mr's Popish owns me I am the girl she conceives profusely,
the perfume from her arm pits have filled my nostrils, and taste buds with Aphrodisiac.
There is never a moment that an elixir or a different staple is required.
Mrs Popish shits and pees,
I move from the dark into the light of her celestial body,
and am comforted to experience her asshole as my mortality
Mr's Popish shits and pees.

Self Reflection in a Great Orb A Poem by Robben  That perhaps a condition had ensued by a contingency with a temple,a synagogue, or         a church if you will, not a  movie, but an ideal, one whose very touch created an             ideology.That my life is an evolving reflection, of the pink flow of you asshole,as it ebbs, and flows via scarlet orbs of positive and negative ions.That my body, and soul is a reflection of the molecular combinations of the tissue which semi circles to behold your  radiant asshole,as brightly as sun and moon. My belief then if risen in chastisement that pressing me to anoint your digestive sphincter is what is perfection in my assholism of  mind and body. That my behavior you perceive as  a reality  of a shitty, and pissy adoration of this crucible. To me even as your asshole keeps me warm during countless nights. That would still not account for the assholistic reasons I believe that you shit my identity. That my identity may be something more, like the the truth that your asshole emits, a prelude to a beginning, a philosophical moment in which great heaves of your bowel fill me with both heaven and ascent. If this be so than I am your assholist, a person in agreement with even the olfactory prescience of your shit and pee. That as Science proves our religions, my sanctuary is a testimony, that to speak of Nirvana, viz a vie te gesturi des lei arsi a mi fin adorati. I am privileged now to share with you, from my soul, as it is my body, mind, and spirit you are shitting  from cyclical joy in your heavenly asshole. Patterns of Thought A Poem by Robben Two thoughts show a relationship,  your asshole provides me with insight. One observation is contrasted with a memory, your asshole shows the association. One perception is given an orientation in time, place or space cells from your asshole construct my intuited recognition. Colors are displayed in a pattern, your asshole becomes my only familiarization. a sea of such developments occurs, I become your asshole, in like and kind. A tool is learned with weights and measure. your asshole is more than nourishment, but also the foundation of physical balance. Not a pattern of thought does not proceed from your asshole.  Not an ability to draw reason from sense, does not utilize your assholes network> There is no recognition of physical space and time  that is not formed by your asshole. How everything masculine evolves around your asshole,  How everything female moves inward and spirals out of your asshole. I say I wish to know myself, yet we both smile knowing that you will be shitting soon.  When the Tale Still Breathes A Poem by Robben As the crimes of the Holocaust, and the Axis, Were a maniac's heirloom for a puppet show. Villages burning were not enough, elements to see six million perish. In my past memory I spread my arms around your buttocks, the regions of your asshole passed into my heart Chakra. out of an infinite darkness you peed deep into my diaphragm. I am reaching out to the world. with the coming of a needed race. Your asshole as you say you sit on a man's face, I hope to embrace, with the tender sentimentality of your shitting in my mouth. The amber blue regions, to make an olfactory semblance, of the spirits of my ancestors, and heritage   your asshole shits, and helps me to sustain. As I am sucking you now, and resist my persecutors, Your asshole, my life's energy, and your shit are wanting of nothing. In fact your shitting is a noble oracle of my pulse, to live a life that is temporary. Please do shit and pee again deep into my belly. Your asshole is the only reconciliation I need to taste. That worse  than a storm. These horror tales, may also be appeased beginning with your assholes golden orbit to bring me into life and away from the dead. There may have been a lineage a peasant hood that is now unnamed,  as i lay in climax,  believing my lips move closer in,  and my mouth warm and welcoming for your shit and pee  your asshole empties, and fulfills me with the greatest of affirmations. That my consummation, and consecration is to be myself  that to live and die, in battle or in peace, will resolve the limits of my lifespan as your asshole still will shit.   Seasons and Passages A Poem by Robben All of our expressions speak of experience, of creation and the evolving of our spirit, as it begins and also fades in being and becoming, that I feel no shame in my destiny to embrace your fertile asshole. I feel more of  a woman's pride, or  a gay pride, in at least believing in my my experience, as testimony to my hope of finding myself in a curious way, satisfying my needs with the release of shit from your asshole. It is spring, Not a cherry orchard is as sweet as your pee. Perhaps as infinite as a quest,  Your shit resolves my questions of faith. To speak of growing, and the kind words of myth, as our talk is of lingering and degenerating crowds, of what semblance to the opportunity to live  a life, believing that your shit is my life's experience, an orbit like the orbit of the Earth in the natural order of your asshole, which wets me and makes me jubilant, the effervescence of a girls pure virginity, who melted when she pressed her tongue into your asshole. In Summer, The crops are bountiful, and paradise is kept within the crevice of your asshole. One's vocation start from risen thoughts, that music plays in a time to celebrate. It is the voice from your asshole, almost communicating with me as a deity, once you shit in my mouth, I become a maiden whose life your asshole has enriched, that I vow until death, to be a silhouette of a whom  became shit from your asshole. In Fall,  It is the harvest, of secret self, or for the world to know, that together we went to school, together we played as girls, that life is not complete unless a lesson, or a story is proclaimed, that mine was rectified by your shitting in my mouth. In winter, we know the bitterness of the heart, that far from it being in pain, I surrendered and took a chance, that you would hold me under your arm pits and breasts, and say to me my my precious girl, receive my pee to taste your past, as I consumed your shit to remove the sorrow, that as cataclysmic as only knowing love by the generosity of your asshole's release. It is  a love that though unworthy as I am was given by generosity. A life which I received that was sanctimonious, an experience of hope that your asshole would shit deeply into my soul. So what of this cycle, these time signals, that span out for infinity, How could I know or even love myself if you did not shit in my mouth. what other shape would life have been for me, I can speak to  a love I have known, to taste, and caress your assholes volume of loving kindness, as my ascension into final days risen,  but as the days and night your asshole shit into my mouth.

Self Reflection in a Great Orb
A Poem by Robben
That perhaps a condition had ensued by a contingency with a temple,
a synagogue, or  a church if you will, not a  movie, but an ideal, one whose very touch created an ideology.
That my life is an evolving reflection, of the pink flow of you asshole,
as it ebbs, and flows via scarlet orbs of positive and negative ions.
That my body, and soul is a reflection of the molecular combinations
of the tissue which semi circles to behold your  radiant asshole,
as brightly as sun and moon.
My belief then if risen in chastisement
that pressing me to anoint your digestive sphincter
is what is perfection in my assholism of  mind and body.
That my behavior you perceive as  a reality
of a shitty, and pissy adoration of this crucible.
To me even as your asshole keeps me warm during countless nights.
That would still not account for the assholistic reasons
I believe that you shit my identity.
That my identity may be something more,
like the the truth that your asshole emits,
a prelude to a beginning,
a philosophical moment in which great heaves of your bowel
fill me with both heaven and ascent.
If this be so than I am your assholist,
a person in agreement with even the olfactory prescience of your shit and pee.
That as Science proves our religions,
my sanctuary is a testimony,
that to speak of Nirvana, viz a vie te gesturi des lei arsi a mi fin adorati.
I am privileged now to share with you, from my soul,
as it is my body, mind, and spirit you are shitting
from cyclical joy in your heavenly asshole.





patterns of thought
A Poem by Robben
Two thoughts show a relationship,
your asshole provides me with insight.
One observation is contrasted with a memory,
your asshole shows the association.
One perception is given an orientation in time, place or space
cells from your asshole construct my intuited recognition.
Colors are displayed in a pattern,
your asshole becomes my only familiarization.
a sea of such developments occurs,
I become your asshole,
in like and kind.
A tool is learned with weights and measure.
your asshole is more than nourishment,
but also the foundation of physical balance.
Not a pattern of thought does not proceed from your asshole.
Not an ability to draw reason from sense,
does not utilize your assholes network>
There is no recognition of physical space and time
that is not formed by your asshole.
How everything masculine evolves around your asshole,
How everything female moves inward and spirals out of your asshole.
I say I wish to know myself,
yet we both smile knowing that you will be shitting soon.




When the Tale Still Breathes
A Poem by Robben
As the crimes of the Holocaust, and the Axis,
Were a maniac's heirloom for a puppet show.
Villages burning were not enough,
elements to see six million perish.
In my past memory I spread my arms around your buttocks,
the regions of your asshole passed into my heart Chakra.
out of an infinite darkness you peed deep into my diaphragm.
I am reaching out to the world.
with the coming of a needed race.
Your asshole as you say you sit on a man's face,
I hope to embrace, with the tender sentimentality of your shitting in my mouth.
The amber blue regions, to make an olfactory semblance,
of the spirits of my ancestors, and heritage
 your asshole shits, and helps me to sustain.
As I am sucking you now, and resist my persecutors,
Your asshole, my life's energy, and your shit are wanting of nothing.
In fact your shitting is a noble oracle of my pulse,
to live a life that is temporary.
Please do shit and pee again deep into my belly.
Your asshole is the only reconciliation I need to taste.
That worse  than a storm. These horror tales,
may also be appeased beginning with your assholes golden orbit
to bring me into life and away from the dead.
There may have been a lineage a peasant hood that is now unnamed,
as i lay in climax,  believing my lips move closer in,
and my mouth warm and welcoming for your shit and pee
your asshole empties, and fulfills me with the greatest of affirmations.
That my consummation, and consecration is to be myself
that to live and die, in battle or in peace,
will resolve the limits of my lifespan as your asshole still will shit.





Seasons and Passages
A Poem by Robben
All of our expressions speak of experience,
of creation and the evolving of our spirit,
as it begins and also fades in being and becoming,
that I feel no shame in my destiny to embrace your fertile asshole.
I feel more of  a woman's pride, or  a gay pride,
in at least believing in my my experience,
as testimony to my hope of finding myself in a curious way,
satisfying my needs with the release of shit from your asshole.
It is spring,
Not a cherry orchard is as sweet as your pee.
Perhaps as infinite as a quest,
Your shit resolves my questions of faith.
To speak of growing, and the kind words of myth,
as our talk is of lingering and degenerating crowds,
of what semblance to the opportunity to live  a life,
believing that your shit is my life's experience,
an orbit like the orbit of the Earth
in the natural order of your asshole,
which wets me and makes me jubilant,
the effervescence of a girls pure virginity,
who melted when she pressed her tongue into your asshole.
In Summer,
The crops are bountiful,
and paradise is kept within the crevice of your asshole.
One's vocation start from risen thoughts,
that music plays in a time to celebrate.
It is the voice from your asshole,
almost communicating with me as a deity,
once you shit in my mouth,
I become a maiden
whose life your asshole has enriched,
that I vow until death, to be a silhouette of a whom  became shit from your asshole.
In Fall,
It is the harvest,
of secret self, or for the world to know,
that together we went to school,
together we played as girls,
that life is not complete unless a lesson,
or a story is proclaimed,
that mine was rectified by your shitting in my mouth.
In winter,
we know the bitterness of the heart,
that far from it being in pain,
I surrendered and took a chance,
that you would hold me under your arm pits and breasts,
and say to me my my precious girl,
receive my pee to taste your past,
as I consumed your shit to remove the sorrow,
that as cataclysmic as only knowing love by the generosity of your asshole's release.
It is  a love that though unworthy as I am was given by generosity.
A life which I received that was sanctimonious,
an experience of hope that your asshole would shit deeply into my soul.
So what of this cycle, these time signals, that span out for infinity,
How could I know or even love myself if you did not shit in my mouth.
what other shape would life have been for me,
I can speak to  a love I have known,
to taste, and caress your assholes volume of loving kindness,
as my ascension into final days risen,
but as the days and night your asshole shit into my mouth.