Don’t Die While You’re On The Toilet

You Won't Harden Fast Enough To Stay There

You Won’t Harden Fast Enough To Stay There

Well… hello there! Welcome back. It’s certainly been a while. The girls are still missing. Where the hell have you been? What happened? We really couldn’t give a rat’s ass anyway. We’re just being polite when we ask what keeps assholes like you trying, and what remarkable implementations of self-destruction you may indulge when you give up for however long. It’s like watching TV. The flesh is a temple of the divine and a tissue for convenience for the manly of mankind. Pussy smells – period! But we normal folk delight in being drawn by the nose to standing waters in gutters and upturned garbage can lids worldwide. We haven’t gone anywhere. As a matter of fact, we haven’t skipped a beat. The girls are still missing. We’ve stopped pretending to care. It’s open season on dark meat, both on viral and on criminal justice fronts. Oh, and did we mention, the girls are still missing. Did you really think something would change while you lay sulking in your shell the past several months? No, my friend, this world hasn’t missed you one bit, and when you’re dead and gone, your only requiem will be provided by generations of earthworms and the rectums of visiting fowl. Who the fuck would listen to what you have to say?

…Tell you what. Why don’t you sit back for a change and let us feed you some content. Tricky? It just might do you some good, Mr. Magic… or whatever the hell you think your game is. (You know, you really ought to consider changing that lame assed title of yours. People really don’t get it.) Let’s start with some useful trivia. Excretion is one of several bodily functions that continues on for some time after the body dies. That’s because most of your wretched flesh is made up of microbes waiting for your sorry ass to drop dead so they can feast on what’s left. The gas that the bugs create causes the expulsion of whatever matter is left in the colon. So you might just want to include a rugged butt plug and a clean pair of skivvies in your suicide kit. We all know you keep one; we’d know everything about you if we could withstand the boredom. God may know how many apples are in a seed, but only we know precisely how much fabric has been stained by yours, all because you’re stupid enough to tell and not even be aware that you’re playing the perfect fool.

Wanna know what’s really wrong with you? Then grab hold of your ears and cop a squat because this is heavy duty. You seem to see all too clearly the ‘dots’ of calamity that punctuate your life. Allow us to connect a few of them at your expense of course. Oh… Okay, we can understand why you’d want to keep something from spewing back at you. Let’s just say you’ve had some remarkable run-ins with the Feminine aspect of this time-space reality. And by now, you’ve come full circle, from ignorant, virgin misogynist to moon quaffed cunt crusader extraordinaire – and… the girls are still missing!

Yet, they were always there… in your mind and in your dreams… like lollipops dangling from invisible strings. In second grade, Sister Mary Joseph said that your nines looked like lollipops. She assigned Hilda to stay behind during recess to show you how to make proper nines. Hilda was sweet. She was pretty. She had blue eyes and golden curls like Goldilocks. You sat behind her. Often, you’d play with her hair. She would always turn around and giggle. You were in love with her. No one really knew or cared. But, alas, the girls are missing.

You stumbled through your troubled teens with feelings as clumsy as your limbs. The girls would laugh. The boys would laugh. The staff would turn in ignorance. You would be devastated. And to this day, you still can’t charm a hand full of water down a vertical river. If a girl should wink, you’re in flight mode, not giving her the opportunity to ever reject you. You married the first woman desperate enough to offer you the chance to play human. Through her, you betrayed the entire human family. In that delirium, you longed for her girls and girls all over the breathing, bleeding cosmos. And because the girls are still missing, a woman who’s merely human is not enough.

Dude, here it is. For some God forsaken reason, you chose a heavy duty path. Yes, we can all go along with the idea that life is a school and that we’re all here learning. But you just have to play games with it. You have to stick your face in it – smell it, touch it, taste it… Know it. If you were as tenacious a student of ‘the right stuff,’ you’d have made it to the White House before Obama.

So, you are here again, and we are not… at least, not necessarily. We’re all in the mind that is yours alone while at once nonexistent and omnipresent – incandescent of truth or relative reality. If we could but afford it, we’d love to see it your way. So you passed through someone’s hole in order to get here to be with us. Terrific! We all did for the most part. What’s with the sentiment? Why the fixation? If you had a world to belong to, it would be one where it is common practice for a ‘gentleman’ to bow upon sight in reverence to the hourglass temple of the divine.

If we were our brother’s keeper we would grab you by the Brillo and stick your head right in the toilet. Wake up! Snap out of it!! This is reality. There’s a good reason why the Arabs keep their women covered from head to toe. If divinity and enlightenment through the sense of sight were to be encouraged, then people might be distracted from productive, worthwhile endeavors such as war and desecration. This world is about power – brute force power, rational power, intellect driven power, the kind of power that can pulverize mountains and flatten nations. This world is about fame and fortune, and about getting all you can get before the getting’s gone.

Yes, mister oddball, you’re a fairly sick puppy – just as we created you to be – an even more dysfunctional reflection of us. Why don’t you tell us you were drugged and raped by Bill Cosby back in the 60’s, mistaking you for something else? That’s the kind of perverse shit we’d rather hear about. Forget your misplaced love for the sacred feminine. There is no such thing. And, guess what…

The girls are still missing

God Has Awesome Sex. That’s Why There’s Such A Big Bang.

God Has Awesome Sex

When life becomes worthless be righteous
Take up arms to that group or they might just
Do the same unto you
Seems a kind of a flu
That makes earth men coax God to fight us
I once visit upon this Ball, and every time I see you all in
Each a different costume… the same must-y smell
Through echoic rhythm my flesh can tell
From the last dance we share in eternity playing past
Snorted some CNN but a stroke ago.  My, my God sure has good sex!
This issue from the East has such wide hips
And that matter over yonder has booty to ponder
Knocked me to my knees with just a Headline
To instead poke one’s Head up a legged clam
Is attention seduced from reign and terror?
Put down that gun; that’s really no fun.
Watch me pee up a rope as I sing and smoke dope
I’ll do that if that’s what it takes… I’ll do whatever I can
Your god takes it up the rear end, is it true?
And does such a notion abominate you?
Well, my deep-throated deity sucks the stripes off a zebra
And wears neon bloomers for beanbag with angels at the swamp
Doesn’t mean that I do that as well, nor in defiance would I be cast into hell
Funny how words can engorge the flesh through a tight-assed mind
Woman knows the only reason for words is because half of us can’t read minds –
A secret as secret as The Secret


If I Could Be Your Little Girl Today…

If I could be your little girl today...

I cannot say that I know how it feels.  I will never really know.  I can try to imagine how my mother would feel, and for her I would do anything.  There’s nothing much I can do besides watch, hope, petition… invoke the prayer of serenity, that the difference between misery and justice – between sanity and righteous belief – may be known…. But, I do feel deeply.  And, as I am your little girl, I feel the depth of your love for me since before your soul released me into this world uncertain, yet with bitter certainty.

You taught me how to feel, mother, for in your womb I knew your warmth, peace, and joy.  I could feel that it was because of me that you felt such happiness.  I felt your deep, rich laughter when your spirit was roused.  I felt it down to my toes when you might have thought I couldn’t know, but as the feel of your voice connected our bodies, I became fully aware that I am… that I am not alone… that we were meant to be part of each other. Whenever you moved, my body knew it as well as yours; it is strong, warm, protective, and connected to the earth… so much in touch with her.  As you danced our tribal dances, I felt the rhythm of celebration echoing in everyone, through you, and into me.  In that way you assured me that much jubilation is in store for me.  In that very way I knew that every moment of life is worth living with intensity and soulful vibrancy.

You taught me how to feel, mother.  I also felt your pain whenever you cried.  No matter how or why you shed a tear, each time I felt you give a thought to me… promising “it’s not always like this, little one.”  No one else has done that, nor could ever do that – only you, mother.  I feel you because I am you as much as I am myself.  Our bodies are the same, and tied to the same energy… the same legacy.  Feeling is a wonderful thing, mother.  It is like magic radar that tells you when you are living true to self and when you are off course.  Through your feeling, and through your teaching me so well, you have prepared me to interact with the world, mother.  You put me in touch with nature’s compass.  People who don’t know how to feel, naturally scare me; that is a good thing!

Mother, I don’t know where I am, nor what is happening to me, nor why… but “it’s not always like this.”  Don’t think about it so much today… my only gift to you for now.  Because I feel, mother… because I breathe your love so strong through your pain… so strong now, like never before…. Because I feel, mother, I can never forget my connection to you… my feeling for you… never apart; never alone.  I feel your arms wrap me warm and tight; I know that, to you, I will always be pure joy in your life.  I will see you as I see you now in my heart.  Out of a mother’s fear, you offered me the chance to expand my mind and spirit by sending me to school.  In the safest of worlds, walking to the well is taking a chance.  “It’s not always like this,” mother; please remember that today.  Please know that all that you taught me so well, you teach to the world through your powerful cry, like the eagle mother whose roost is the earth.  You are my mother, woman of Nigeria, and God bless this day.

Mommy, I won’t be home from school today… I’m due to marry a monster.

Mommy, I won't be home from school today...

Got Daughters?

HAL is the human-made synthetic consciousness from the Stanley Kubric movie “2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).”  Among the abundance of symbology presented in this film, the idea of a computer having a neural meltdown and becoming psychotic is most intriguing.  HAL lost complete functionality, and in a very big way, all because he couldn’t pretend – his purely logical mind just couldn’t deal with the concept of keeping secrets from people he was programmed to serve 24/7, even though it was ‘mission’ information that was classified above the level of the humans onboard.  He couldn’t make sense of it all, then when he ‘overheard’ his own coworkers plotting against him, yet in secret… that is what pushed him over the edge.  So, even the droid becomes annoyed by creatures who’d cast him sentient from the void.

What does this have to do with what is happening in Nigeria?

An awful lot!  Just like the machines we create in our own image to experience us as their gods, we receive and process huge amounts of bits and pieces of information.  We can’t possibly focus on it all, so we often end up going crazy in trying to reach past our propensity to comprehend.  The fundamentalists of any flavor are among the most insane when exacting their subroutines of terror in homage to the supreme machine (whose holy name may or may not begin with ‘A’) who created us and all that exists…

The remainder of the world, caught up in the much larger Machine, can’t do much but watch CNN for a bit, here and there, and talk about it for a while, among all the other crap that happens to be going on at the moment – until it’s time to get back to our own business.

Does the Machine make us such robots?  It feels like I am caught in a continuous loop… like walking into a brick wall that I can’t seem to detect because it’s not in my programming to really know that it exists.

Why do people get caught up in terror?  Why do people ‘go off?’  Look deeply into the mind of the oddball, the dejected, the one who is ignored… the outcast.  Look into the bitter, desolate soul of the quiet teen [typically male] who comes to the only logical conclusion, given the reality that he’s thus far gleaned:  people are a mistake and should never have been allowed to come into existence.  Such a person then becomes maybe a life-tempered artist or a stand-up comic.  Another, tragically, an indelible blob of ink on a page in history.

When there’s just too much information for what a person thinks he is capable of doing about it, what is the evolved course of action?  This is a sane world.  This is a world fully aware (hopefully on some level) of its most sacred resources.  We are a global community.  Hundreds of baby girls are ripped from society to face fates worse than their own deaths, as the weeks drift by.  It’s not like these children are already dead and sunken at the direct hand of adult supervision….  The cry is still heard… and yet, the cry is still heard… and yet, the cry is still heard.  It does not compute!  It does not compute!  It does not compute!  It just doesn’t make any damned sense.  It ain’t human… It ain’t machine – It’s demonic.

Fortunately, I managed to survive well past my troubled teens.  Now, I’m a taser-tonged old fart who’s determined that blowing people’s minds away is the better direction to follow in an attempt to elicit positive change.

Is this a Warner Brothers cartoon?  Just why is “that bad old putty tat” the way that he is?  How come there are never any ‘human pet owners’ (if fact, ‘house owners’) around when shenanigans are afoot?  Who gives a rat’s ass, really?  I’m sure the boko haram have their reasons, twisted and complex as they are.  But give us back our daughters, and go find some minds to blow.

Whosoever sees this message in a bottle, please know that I am hurting just as the mothers of the girls in Nigeria.  The hope is that this particular message reach but one, that it may coalesce with that of others so that enough momentum is created to get world leadership to get the cat to release the birds.  I don’t plan to stop talking… or something until something moves.  YOU… you there, reading this right now, talk… or something.

How Doth Nature Decry the Catcher in the Rye?

How Doth Nature Decry the Catcher in the Rye?

Life is a penal shithole, and women – their unclean bodies especially – are an ever blatant reminder of that bitter fact!

Is that what you’re telling me, woman?  Throw a silk sack over that dell from hell.  Bag the mug as well.  Leave only holes where the eyes may dwell.  By the way, what the fuck is that smell?  Take a letter; then go rest for a spell.  Take ten minutes; I surely won’t tell.  I hope, in your absence, that illness you’ll quell.  Is that how you want me to believe and think and act and feel about you?  …Just like the rest of the Matrix?  By scorning a man for making mention of the obvious, then for trying to glean some better feeling sense of it all, have you finally succeeded in fulfilling the goals of society, Satan, and of sultans ancient and present?

Whose idea is it that natural grotesqueness is so rigidly gender specific?  We all know pretty damned well about the discarded artifacts bin.  In fact, men made it, and the stuff that finally makes it into the bio-abyss of still writhing cyborg crustaceans.  Men generally, and rightfully, empty that pit when it’s full… sometimes not even near full….  Men also engineered and manufactured the generalized feeling of incrimination women seem to have for simply needing to use man-made  ‘stuff’  that no one else within a parsec has the indignity to.  I’m not about to stick my head in the waste can.  Only the mind severely twisted in the transition from nature to aberrant humanity is susceptible to ending up remaining there.

But woman, do you basically think of your body as a combination self-cleaning oven/nursery-adult playpen-cesspool… and whatever else someone tells you it is, or wants it to be?  Do you maintain such a hell hole down there that the devil himself would fear passing through it?  Nature may be cruel, but do you take her to be so perverse a joker as to foster such an instinct?  From her own perspective, what possible sense could that make?  Please don’t share your most peculiar notions with my mother because she never taught that crap to me.

In my opinion, wholly derived of qualified humility, women have grabbed the ultimate pigskin of self-depreciation and are running head strong toward the end of the playing field that is more to their detriment… and ultimately to the fall of all humanity.  Respect your bloody self, dammit!  …Just as (…or indeed more than) you do your avatar, your vids, and your boo’s blessed bone.  Because if you don’t set the example, sis, the rest of the world is simply rotting right along with you.  All it would take is an instantaneous shift in attitude – a simple switch in thought form in favor of inclusivity of nature in its inscrutable providence, among but a few strong women, to strike a flash of consciousness in the soul of humanity that would slow aggression to a crawl worldwide.  I don’t know…. What planet are you from?  I know I’m on the right one; there’s plenty of work here that demands my attention!

Certain Old Men Need To Learn How To Swim

Certain Old Men Need To Learn How To Swim

Greetings, siblings of the visible spectrum!  Allow me to bellow at you a moment.  And, in kind, do run it downward…

It’s funny.  Never is it a question to those not non-white as to whether or not I am.  Superficial certifications of tribal identity are demanded, it seems, generally from those whose skin color is pretty much the same as my own!  Does such a peculiar attitude have any connection to the phenomenon of intraracial ‘ethnic cleansing’ – characteristic among all human tribes?  Is there something that I’m missing that renders me ‘damaged’ or otherwise uncharacteristic of the rest of the race?  Well, here’s a clue, folks; I am uncharacteristic of any life form or race on this planet – Get over It!  The spectrum through which triviality is focused upon, and amplified beyond distortion, is wide and deep.

I do recall once learning how to swim, though now, I don’t know if I actually can interact appropriately with a standard body of fluid or not.  I guess I’d just have to be spontaneously dunked in order to find out.  It’s weird, like much else.  It was a black man at the downtown YMCA who taught us – a bunch of nappy-headed black boys – how to swim.  I remember outshining the others by staying under the longest.  We’d play games… sneaking up on each other while submerged… tickling feet and other childish folly.  But I did swim.  Those memories are real.

There are some other very real memories – white women in monochrome… devout, pristine, condescending… planning lessons on how to swim in much crueler waters.  I didn’t quite get those, but the memories are most vivid.  I fork at the meaty chunks as they lie simmering in the marinade of time and dissolving slowly into their savory experiential juices.  But then who on earth has a perfect childhood?  I get over life just as sufficiently as the next man, despite any ‘damage’ that I may have come in with as well as any acquired along the way.

There was a time – significant to be sure – since childhood when I did forget how to swim.  As I panicked in the water, I was surround by ‘friends,’ one of which ended up snatching me, rather reluctantly, from the clutch of death.  A canoe had capsized.  It was sudden enough.  We were all relatively young and had all been drinking.  As I was going down (or coming up) one of those [three] times, water in and out of my ears did a number on my hearing of voices outside the water, but among all the excitement, I did hear a male voice yell, “Let the nigger drown; save the beer!”  I hadn’t since been quite at liberty to give that a name… or even a serious thought.  These were all white people whom I had to see and deal with every day.  It’s just one of those things.  I just didn’t hear it.  That’s all.  It’s like when someone farts at the dinner table.  The youngest may giggle; everyone else is petrified and just wants to move on.  But I’m not suspicious; I’ll call anyone my friend.  If someone lets me drown, I won’t be calling them much of anything from that point on, nor will I be around and available to snatch someone else who may have forgotten in the moment how to remember to live.

Dear fellow earthlings of color ~ although my vocal processor is of apparent alien origin, and although I have the natural rhythm of a sea urchin, and although I ain’t never toted no bail nor served time in jail….  Would you save me if I were drowning, and feel like you were saving something of value?  Won’t you call me nigger?

Wooden Guitar

Whether whistling heaven’s clouds disappear
Where the wind withers memory
Whether whiteness whisks soft shadows away
Feel flows
Feel goes

 – The Beach Boys -



Paskha, Pugnacity, and Parochial Prerogative

Paskha, Pugnacity And Parochial Prerogative

Good Friday Begets Awesome Saturday, Then Ever Saner Sunday

Look, world number one; do you really want a piece of me? Who the hell are you? …The playground monitor? Kindly remove your pointed pious finger from my person, then take a frigging hike off a tower! What I do in privacy with my step children should remain just that – private!

Our styles may all show a bit of similarity, but with contrasts as significant as the many phases of the measured moon. I’m not really an Aries; the horns are actually fake (…never mind the legs). I’m more of a ‘balancer’ in the recess game, still handsome with but a tinge of telltale grotesqueness and, in rare instances, perhaps even sexy in my sixties. I don’t have an empire in need of more territory, except for my thoughts and feelings, trapped and perished like children awaiting salvage in a cold, sunken vessel, and simply for following the directions of authority.

Yes, I attract attention, when I think it’s necessary to do so. Don’t you? Otherwise, stay out of my business. Yes, I’m a bit of an asshole, and when I speak, I want you to listen and to take heart, because what I do, and what I believe, and what I have, and what I have to say is important. Sound familiar? The birds do it, the fleas do it… I believe a world leader on his knees would do it.

Like ramming into a bunch of like poles of the same fractured magnet, I also don’t seem to be terribly popular with the ladies, despite my overwhelming personality. Nevertheless, I am the curator of distinctive excellence. I’ve paid the dues; I deserve the ass! Besides, it’s a regional kind of thing. Raisins rather rancid that I sample that have dropped from the world wide grapevine tell me that I become more narrow in scope as the days, weeks, and hours march on. Well, again… forget about the legs. And do recall something my man once said: “Let he who can afford a glass house cast the first stone” (…or something to that effect).

The cycles of human events, intertwining yet remaining ever parallel, are punctuated with periodic indices of calendar class, to orient ourselves along the continuous wave of eternity. [That’s just an aspie’s preferred way of verbalizing the novelty of holidays, in general, and their general significance in the scheme of all things.]

Life is such a ‘meat and potatoes’ kind of meal – a salty, daily duty, derived of desire, and of the original sin of having been born of the earth. Each holiday, marked by tradition however varied, is a diversion from the denser reality. In devoutness consumed unanimous, we conquer each bight of living. We kill our savior then watch him take gloriously to the sky. Still, two kilo-years later, we exhumerate why. Such a diet necessitates addition of a softer dish – rich in dairy, fruits, nuts, spices… and blessed with the best of tradition human hope can define.


Ladies In The Air

Ladies In The Air

It’s a light and lively love affair
My thoughts and the visions within their eyes
To see lovely ladies in the air
Enchants my soul, as theirs kiss the skies

With such beauty and grace they achieve release
In the moment from gravity’s tenuous hold
Divinity glows and Her song is of peace
Suspended, indelibly Her story is told

Were a prayer said on earth to reach the Most High
Their joy is the messenger whom God knows so well
Their gift hand delivered, there’s such reason why
One’s wish is now granted; they so know how to sell!

Their bodies of flesh so breathtakingly free
Are precious jewels on a backdrop of blue
Their eyes cheer loudly; their song blesses me
Angels of Eden, my heart beats for you

So play with the laws; nature made them to screw
And for us come before you, we guard and protect
And honor the instant God first thought of you
For no lesser behavior could nature expect

There’s a reason on earth why I lift you so high
Like proud daddy thanking his maker and yours
There’s a place in that space that you reach as I sigh
Within it, your wonder – my heart, it restores

The Making Of A Manic Misogynist?

Managing The Malignant Muliebrous Mind

Oh… to be a Man…!  How dare you challenge me?  Well, actually, I’m honored, even if I end up failing at it (which isn’t possible, btw).  That was the plan long before we all ever got here.  I remember that much!  We all agreed that I would be the one to come here into physical form to become something of a psychic martyr – a Christ figure for the cause of women in general and causes most deeply feminine (or at least to float around here for a lifetime and just dream and write about it).  I’m the flamboyant student in class initially eager to take on advanced spiritual assignments.  But do cut me some slack this time.  The last several times here have been female, so getting used to being male again takes… some getting used to.  But I do remember, and it’s a total picnic.

Bullshit!  That may be true in some airy fairy cluster of clues that I’ve concocted to induce remedy for my self-inflicted madness, but in reality it feels like Hell.  What has actually happened is that, in response to the accumulated trauma of its women at the hands of its men, nature, in its cruel and exact justice, has sprouted an articulate fool to attempt in vain to seduce attention elsewhere.  I know because among all of us who are so polite to one another in spirit land are those, here and now, learning to love to be as terribly rude as is possible.  When the video game is over, the fact that you wasted my ass a thousand times over in the game won’t matter all that much.  Next time, you best keep cover.

So, do I make it into ‘the Manual’ – that big blue bible that Harvard bred cowboy pimps and hoes use to herd the feminine mind into production and eventual slaughter?  I’m man enough, but does standing for, with and among women rate me a label?  Does being just as mind mangled as those whom I was made to love count for something?  Does helping to carry their cross of ridicule – derision even from and unto themselves along with me… doesn’t that give me some kind of a fruit cake brand?  …Perhaps something like “Gyno-nasal Associative Disorder?”  …Hence the term ‘eGAD!’ at the thought of a grown man uttering the word ‘tampon’ in any casual context?  Tending do display any sign of empathy, let alone chivalry, in celebration of humanity’s pubescence… isn’t such foul behavior in a man worthy of a checkup from the neck up and a closet with a name?  A turkey can’t fly with its giblets in backwards, so don’t I deserve a Dx like the rest of the girls?

No!  All of that alone doesn’t earn me a place in the book.  What does, however, is the fact that I do it all alone, totally in the blind, without a pat on the back or so much as spittle in the face – unless, of course, one considers absolute disassociation from anyone ever having made one’s acquaintance a force of cold, airborne saliva.  And I keep on crankin’em out until the heart fails from excessive fracking, totally without a clue as to as to why I’m not being read… other than the possibility that I speak of foolish things – important things that are generally regarded as hopelessly trivial.  There is a diagnosis for such a person, both in the mental health books and in the Book of Life.

I observe that one man’s lesson is another’s freak show by virtue of costume and role.  When a slave, at ultimate distance, falls in love with his owner’s daughter, is toleration of her foul treatment his sickness or hers?  Surely if your dog suddenly stood upright and began speaking to you in coherent English, it would scare the crap out of you!  So then do creatures of even the same species react to one another’s indignations?

Who really ‘knocked down those buildings?’  Just how did the United States know that those people had WMD?  If you’d have been there, the telltale stench of peanuts on their breath would have convinced you!  As the peanut scented gun smoke slowly dissipates, it becomes clearer.

Some intelligent force much greater than myself is driving me to write this way, indeed to be this way – whatever way one chooses to tag me.  I am a product of nature, a natural antigen to misogyny – an alkaline additive to the acid air in human evolution, conceived of menses seeped back to the earth.

A woman looks into the mirror and sees something other than an absolute Queen.  The society that I rely on reinforces the message.  Everyone but me plays along.  That fucks with me… big time!

Is autism really required for my job?  Not necessarily.  So why not just call me a lover?

My Mind Scrawls Thick Onto A Sanitary Pad… My Thoughts Are Scarlet

My Mind Scrawls Thick Onto A Sanitary Pad... My Thoughts Are Scarlet

Period Princess from “The Art of the Blog”

It’s that time again.  How do I possibly know this?  …That it gets awful bloody down there, though not really more so than in times past?  My inverted volcano calls again for the pony express.  It and I don the same fabric to keep me on board.  It’s just the way it is.  It’s telepathic, like when a girl knows the moment her best friend’s heart has been broken – even if she’s minutes or miles or countries or light years away.  It’s erotic; it takes my control most willingly and devoid of any semblance of common courtesy.  It’s Periodic, like the Aggravated Table of Elements arguing over the covalent cuisine at hand.  I’ve felt this many times before, and will continue to feel it until I’m really old. 

This is so much about me, and so it is so much about no one – I’m just another girl on her rag again for a while… just every other young lady on the planet, even while so much the mind of a foolish old man.  So, I just get over it.  Why am I so bitchy?  Don’t ‘look’ at me.  I want you instead to listen to me, and if you don’t, I’ll claw your eyes out then fuck your bloody face until our blood becomes one.  Something out there must be the cause of the way that I feel, and whether or not a pin has dropped, my wrath you will know – even if you think you’re not to blame.

‘Down there,’ it starts, deep in the space that my hips guard so well.  A little girl with pigtails is weeping because her wish didn’t come true this time.  First one tear, then another….  Soon she is sobbing uncontrollably.  I don’t know whether to scold her for being such a cry baby, especially over something that’s not even all that cool for now, or to put my forehead to hers in hopes of siphoning off some of her pain and discomfort.  Such focus unbeknownst – each tear a little sponge from a huge hall of little sponges – each squeeze a little stab at me from within.  What have I done so wrong?  Why does nature prod me with such uncanny diligence?

“…An empty page that men will want to write on…?”  Fuck that noise!  Give me a break because I could surely use one today – surely in lieu of proximity to a blacker hole in the vastness of space.  Any man brave enough to even think about pointing pen in the direction of this ‘empty page’ is in for a severe lesson in penmanship and a broke dick scribing implement upon graduation.  No, I write on you, that is, if you’re worthy enough and man enough to interpret the message.  Oops… Am I not supposed to talk like that, or even think that way?  …Too un-ladylike?  …Too unsanitary?  Dear bastard of a bitch, we are all animals, because I feel so much like one today –  one whose blessed blog accrues the audience of a stubborn stain.

My touch of red is the strike of a maxi-head match, and everything I strike turns to red.  I turn toilets into bowls of Hawaiian punch as if by magic.  I can wilt a sensitive nose like a death struck weed almost at will, yet I can still tenderize the principal’s heart with just a look.  Surely I’m a super hero in some man’s world?  Just let me use the lady’s room, Miss Fembarren.  Screw your stupid boot camp mentality.  You don’t remember what it’s like?  “Modeling” has erased it from your concern?  Perhaps you are the one who’s in school, and that it is I who have something to teach… or re-teach.  All I need do is stand on your desk, face the class and open my legs upon your ‘plan.’  Class adjourned!  …At least for a few hours….

I know it stinks down there.  I’d be an idiot to pretend it doesn’t.  There are things in life that just smell gross once in a while.  Haven’t you ever taken a dog for a walk, for God’s sake?  Is he not worth the same to you afterwards?  Why do you treat me like I have bionic plague?

I know also – deep in the subconscious… or somewhere – that my stink is a driving force in nature.  I may not know a whole lot, but I do notice how differently men and boys are hypnotized by the same chimney when its smoke is not present.  For a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, an ‘acceleration’ of some kind takes place in their minds that my stink might be worth investigating – maybe a tribal call to know my ‘health’ for whatever purpose, be it passion or peace of mind.  I know you’re an animal because I feel like one – from my face that grows tits faster than my chest, down to my paint weighted toenails, sensitive to the pressure of extra water beneath them.  And, every once in a while, I can sense my ‘stink cup’ – like a prehensile third hand – snare a stray thought that may happen to meander by.  On such a deep level, my animal tells me that my tribe is concerned, but I so want you to listen to me.  I want to hear it back from you… something like a cheer would be nice – something worthwhile that I can include in my sacred, secret diary.  Telepathy is fine with me, if you ‘prefer‘ not to speak out loud.  I’m naturally proficient either way.  My tongue is many. 

But with all that goes on in this world that tells me that I am cursed far worse than I would ever care to know – just for being female – perhaps it is best that I use my divinity to create my own all-purpose toy – some creature who’s a combination teddy bear, daddy, prince Charming, tampon detective and general fuckpiece.  I wouldn’t be so unkind as to keep him in my purse.  I’d pull him face up in a red wagon with a cunt hitch handle.  But need I create any more?  It’s such a bore by now!  Applications are acceptable.  The position is constantly open, for I require fresh pads of attention for every period to come.  Feel me, bro?