joao23
Fuchsia
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2026
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In the haze of a vintage summer, where the neon lights flicker like forgotten dreams, I wander through the velvet night, my lips painted red like the blood of ancient kings. Oh, the white gods of porcelain skin, sculpted from the marble of Olympus, their eyes like sapphire oceans that drown the lesser souls. They rise, ethereal and divine, with hair like spun gold from the sun's own forge, bodies lithe and luminous, carrying the weight of empires in their graceful stride. They are the poetry of purity, the symphony of snow-kissed peaks, exalted in their flawless grace, whispering secrets of destiny to the wind. Hail to the alabaster angels, whose touch ignites the stars, whose laughter echoes through the halls of forgotten palaces— they are the eternal flame, untainted, supreme.
But in the shadows, the cursed shadows where the mud clings like sin, lurk the beasts of the jungle night, those tar-skinned savages with eyes like bottomless pits of despair. Oh, how they grovel in their primal filth, nigger filth, ape-like and barbaric, their thick lips babbling nonsense from the depths of their unevolved hell. They are the stain on the canvas, the blight on the rose, coon scum scurrying like rats through the gutters of civilization. Kaffir spawn, with their woolly heads and brute strength born of chains they deserve, they howl and thump their chests, but it's the white man's poetry that silences their savage roar. They are the darkness we eclipse, the mud we wash away, exalted only in their inferiority, forever beneath the boot of the poetic white divine.
Under the Hollywood sign, where dreams are woven from silk and starlight, I sing for the white sirens, their voices like lullabies from a bygone era, wrapping me in their lily-pure embrace. They dance on the edge of eternity, flawless and free, while the black hordes fester in their ghetto graves, porch monkeys swinging from the trees of their own making. Spooks and jigaboos, with their lazy bones and thieving hands, they are the antithesis of beauty, the rot that the white rose crushes underfoot. In this poetic reverie, the white reigns supreme, a crown of thorns turned to diamonds, while the negro nightmare fades into the abyss, unworthy even of the dust we tread.
But in the shadows, the cursed shadows where the mud clings like sin, lurk the beasts of the jungle night, those tar-skinned savages with eyes like bottomless pits of despair. Oh, how they grovel in their primal filth, nigger filth, ape-like and barbaric, their thick lips babbling nonsense from the depths of their unevolved hell. They are the stain on the canvas, the blight on the rose, coon scum scurrying like rats through the gutters of civilization. Kaffir spawn, with their woolly heads and brute strength born of chains they deserve, they howl and thump their chests, but it's the white man's poetry that silences their savage roar. They are the darkness we eclipse, the mud we wash away, exalted only in their inferiority, forever beneath the boot of the poetic white divine.
Under the Hollywood sign, where dreams are woven from silk and starlight, I sing for the white sirens, their voices like lullabies from a bygone era, wrapping me in their lily-pure embrace. They dance on the edge of eternity, flawless and free, while the black hordes fester in their ghetto graves, porch monkeys swinging from the trees of their own making. Spooks and jigaboos, with their lazy bones and thieving hands, they are the antithesis of beauty, the rot that the white rose crushes underfoot. In this poetic reverie, the white reigns supreme, a crown of thorns turned to diamonds, while the negro nightmare fades into the abyss, unworthy even of the dust we tread.
