/lit/ - Literature

>>19438671
Keng-ça-fou, Mah-jong,
Keng-ça-fou, puis' -kong-kong-pran-pa,
Ça-oh-râ, Ça-oh-râ…
Ça-oh-râ, Cas-ka-ra, harakiri, Sessue Hayakawa
Hâ! Hâ! Ça-oh-râ toujours l'air chinoâ.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXNkGDsXPz0

shaniqua, lighta my life, fiyah of deez nuts. my hustle, my soul. sha-- nigga I'on kno how to spell dat shiet. she sha, dusty-ass sha, in da mo'nin', a lil shawty bouncin' on ma dikk. she shaquanda in a thotty alphet. she shanice failin' on her ged'z. she sha'rhondá to da lapd. but in dis nigga armz she alwayz shaniqua. wuz dere a old bitch? yezzir, fo sho sho. matta fact, ain't no shaniqua at all if I ain't creep wit a lil nigglet 1 summa. In a long beach trap. nigga wen? when shanique jus a lil nutbust n I first get nappy hairz on dis nigga dikk. u can alwayz count on a killa fo a sikk flo.

>>19438671
>>19438867
This is the funniest shit ive read on 4channel

>>19438671
>>19438867
Shitting myself

>>19438867
Joycean

Barbara, the sauce on my burger, the propane in my grill. My sin, my sugar. Bar-ba-ra: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps across the Big Mac to savor the cheese slices. Bar-ba-ra. She was Bo, plain Bo, in the morning, standing 300 pounds in Walmart moccasins. She was Barbie in sweatpants. She was Barb at McDonald’s. She was Barbara on the dotted line, right underneath the 40% tip. But in my fupa she was always Barbara. Did she have a precursor? She did, she did indeed. In point of fact, there might have been no Barbara at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial hoochie mama. In a burger joint by the highway. Oh when? About 20 super bowls ago. You can always count on a burger for a fancy measuring system.

>>19438867
>she sha'rhondá to da lapd

>>19439635
>About 20 super bowls ago. You can always count on a burger for a fancy measuring system.

>>19438671

Guenon, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Gue-----non: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Gue. Non. Pip pip pip. He was One, plain One, in the morning, standing four feet ten before his two foot face. He was Tao in robes. He was Parmenides at life. He was Zeno on the dotted line. But in my mind he was always Guenon. Did he have a precursor? He did, indeed he did. In point of fact, there might have been no Guenon at all had I not initiated, one summer, an initial retroactive initiation. In a doctrine by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Guenon was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, the Whiteheadians, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.

>>19440077
>standing four feet ten before his two foot face.