Universal Fury

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The mouth in the clouds opens

into a universal scream

because there is no space

for a dream

-ing of future, places, tense for little girls;

Ripped from the bosom of the Mother

then forced unto a Father whose

hellfire and damnation

damned the father to disconnect

from all that is truly holy and

created a new hell.

The African Queen roars

for the pain of her pride,

ripped from the ground and the head of the vessel

that brings the birth of the next generations

shatter

-ing the chalice and creation of pleasure

for the pursuit of power

structures that inhibit growth

beyond the perpetual pregnancy

of what freedom might feel like.

Morrigan speaks her pain

and power and self into being through

a mortal man

who would like to remain mere

-ly quiet, in his soft bubble of

self and softness

while injustice reigns.

La Madre

is honored for false virginity but

isn’t for the power of her presence

and presents of peace–her daughters’

virginity transformed into whore

by greed and with gusto.

We cry “Save the Mother”

theatrically

but conspire to keep her children

in the depths of torment upon the

first forced parting of their thighs…

saying, “Shhhhhh…..”

Selling them shortened lives and

into chains of bondage and fear

Now, though, Wakiyan are called to walk

with Pratyangira,

angels and devas dive into the

world of the eagle embodied

bringing together iron and thunder

trident and truth.

The Silk Lady’s red ribbon

drips and twists from heart to

heat,

stoking the fire of

the Furies

and, where it meets her feet,

Aphrodite is reforged.

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A Plea

Please don’t.

Please don’t fuck your children.

Please don’t fuck your friend’s children.

Please don’t fuck the friends of your children.

Please don’t procure children to fuck.

Please don’t put on the priestly, monkish, motherly, doctorly, lawyerly or powerlike vestments as a way to fuck children.

Please don’t procure children to be fucked by those in the uniforms of seeming safety.

Please don’t purchase travel from companies that promote those children’s procurement.

Please don’t support those governments that actively encourage the procurement of those childern to bolster their tourist trade. As if the intimate touching of children is a trade.

Please don’t use your leverage as terrorist to steal children to fuck or as teacher to fuck children.

Please don’t rent your children out to be fucked. Please don’t trade your children for rent.

Please don’t finger or fondle your children.

Please don’t finger or fondle your friend’s children.

Please don’t finger or fondle the friends of your children.

Please don’t procure children to finger or fondle for yourself, your friends or those who create a false sense of safety for the rest of the world. Please do not support agencies and governments that do so.

Please do not use your finger to entice them into being fucked.

As if the parting of the softest parts are separate from the heart.

Please don’t use your finger to threaten & silence them after you’ve fucked them.

Please don’t ignore that knowing that says, “I know that child is getting fucked.”

Please don’t ignore the child that tells you he is being fucked or she has been fucked. Whether child or grown.

The pain you cause lives on–whether you do the fucking, procuring of fucking or ignoring of fucking–long past your pleasure or the lack thereof. It lives on in psyches and cells; in muscles and memory. It creates chasms for those withouth strength to fall into and fight out of if they can. It lingers in language and fear. It doesn’t diminish with time but diminishes the glorious being they were gifted at birth and can only reclaim by working much harder than you did to create the fuck-fact and facade behind it.

The sorrow, grief, despair, disappearances and disassociations, rage, sadness, stoney spine, armoured and broken-hearted, guarded natures grow up and into selves that cannot see their original & lasting sanctity because your sin has obscured them.

How simple is it to not. fuck. children.

For those of you who have sought relief from the secrets, the invasion of your sacred space, and need sanctuary: I see you. I feel you. I am you. I believe you. I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Beyond measure. Beyond all boundaries.

For those who rescue and resuscitate those whose pain is enfolded in the fabric of their being: I see you. I feel you. I am you. I honor you. I love you.

Beyond measure. Beyond all boundaries.

 

Please, please. Whoever you are, in all of those places you are. Please don’t fuck any more children. Please don’t begin fucking children. Please ask for help. Please, by all measures and definitions of what we all consider holy. Please stop. Please don’t.