angry women

There were no tears or cries for clemency
she stood expressionless
tore the broken skin from her back
and made a hang-man's hood
then handed it to her executioner






 

†††
In your dreams in the night you see visions,
Filled with evil and terror and hate,
And next to you stands a figure,
In the darkness for you she awaits...
†
She is the Mistress that appears in the night time,
Who has been haunting this place for some years,
And they say that once you have seen her,
You will drown on your knees in your tears...
†
The fear that she brings is mortal,
Past legends enticed you to come,
Clairvoyant as she lurks in the darkness,
Waiting for you to succumb...
†
The moonlight casts angry shadows,
In this graveyard abyss where she dwells,
The fog rolls in with a vengeance,
In this place of death and staunch smells...
†
The Mistress has an array of broken souls,
It is in the darkness they begin their rise,
Searching this place for a victim,
Under the darkened cover of night...
†
The anguish from their rise an enigma,
You know there is no turning back,
This only takes you into their realm,
Where now they begin their attack...
†
With no where to go, they have found you,
Screams break the silence of night,
Blood stains the path where you stood,
Which brought you to the end of your life...
†
The Mistress has struck in the darkness of night.
Tomorrow she will strike back again,
The Mistress will forever live on,
Poised in the darkness with an evil grin...
†
So for now just say that its over,
Tonight you are just like the rest,
The Mortal Mistress has taken you,
To the end of your life with your death...
†††

So what am I supposed to do right now?
Forget and delete everything that I have felt with you?

The spiral tried to get me in its grief and victimhood but no.
I saw you in me.
I saw that part of me that was screaming for attention. And the way I have been treating it, is the same with yours towards me. This is a mirroring reflection...My freedom and purity wants to be embodied in me but I am running away from them.


What the fuck am I saying?
This is rediculous. I'm brainwashed and naive.
There is no such thing as true love.

Then I say, this is all a joke. Don't take things too seriously.
Am I pushing my true feelings to the uncoscious?
I have tried the autopilot method to overcome pain and it works.
But you keep coming back into my mind.
The first reaction used to be a tear and a sudden wave of pain in my chest.
Maybe weaping. Cursing angels and gods.
This is the spiral. It goes nowhere.
So I try to think how small we are. How pointless all may seem one day.
I try to be present.
Fuck, this doesn't work all the time either.

Time is the most tyrant healer.
It promises what won't matter when it arrives.
It takes away your control and intoduce you to its own laws.
Time can let you suffer eternally.
This would be a good moment to reclaim power.

I don't know if I will ever be able to get you out of my thoughts.
Maybe you will fade away but as I write this I feel a thuder on my heart that says no.
Is it illusion?
Why is this happening?
What is left to see is what my paranoid thoughts will manifest.
It's either chaos or ultimate peace.
I try to remember and focus on the blessings.
But then I feel stupid.
Why do I give myself like that?
I must hate her guts.
It's tragic.
I start with neutral mode and then dive into pain, then burn with anger,  before I begin to feel nuts and have random thoughts of stupid new age terms.
I want love like this no more, thank you.
I want out of this delusion.

But yet, here I am looking at your face and letting myself shatter into million pieces.
I must never come across to your imagery. It's so painful. I don't understand the lesson. I don't want to learn it. I don't care.
I care of nothing. I just breathe by instinct, move around the house like a robot performing its daily activities. It's hard to forgive myself.

"Why do you cry?", the realist is laughing at me.
'You were aware of that might happen".
"Fuck off", the spiritual junkie says.
"All will pass", I hear a warm voice that brings some relief.
"I want to die right now", my scared old persona declares.

I shut all my aspects down.
Who is in control of my brain?
Who is in control of my life?
I believed in us so much..again..this is what hurts me the most.
My stupidity.
My lack of awareness to have no expectations.
My fucking weakness is you, just as you are my empowerment.
I want to leave this place.
I want to live... I have no will to live.
What keeps me going?
Is there a god? Fuck you!
Did I choose this? I'm more mad to myself than ever.
Is there a fate? Cause and effect? Fuck those too!





Bring me some darkness so I cannot see.
I have no eyes. Neither has my soul.
I don't need light, nor the sun.
Bring me some fire, my body is lit.
I'll hypnotize it with smoke, promote it with wisdom,  dress it with cum.
I'll punish the whore that won this lifetime.
She'll have no feelings, just mere sensations.
I'll let her write and play her guitar, I'll treat her some amnesia remedies.
I'll buy her a vision, a popular one.




This delusion is safer.
Yours is killing me. And you're not even in it.
Where are you? Who are you?
Are you my revenge?
Are you my punishment?
What have I done?

As I observe all from a slightly higher perspective I feel you close to me.
But I fear this is  a false frame of my fantasy.
I can't risk anymore.
I'm tired. I start whining like a little baby. I immediately stop myself.
No more drama.
Anger doesn't serve me either.
I would love the possibility of knowing what the hell is wrong with me.

When she was seven
we played a game,
matching heads to bodies and legs,
a little girls face, strong arms
with anchor tattoos
footballers legs
and army boots.

And so she made the image match
stronger faster quicker,
hard to catch,
brighter braver better
than the best.
She became herself.

At seventeen they dropped the veil
of the beauty queen, eating only apples
to fall fast asleep.
When she woke I cried,
thinner weaker slower
something died inside.
Quiet dull compliant,
tethered to the tugboats pull.
She wanted the boys
to flock like gulls.

At twenty one she started to see
beyond the braille books
of how a female should look
in preparation for male approval,
an ill placed hand can break
the darkest of spells.

So now she stands ahead of the table,
pens take note when she speaks
a guide for the weak, all are equal.
The papers reported her success
with questions of tummy tucks
and real or fake breasts.
They missed the anchor tattoo.

Pops told me that even us good girls start and end as dust and that the in-between was simply horseshit sticking both parts together.
 
Mama said that even though we might dust and clean, we was created from more than just dirt. That the rib of a Man crafted us good girls.  
 
Imagine that. Here we stand, and work, and sit quiet--like good girls do--all because of you and your extra bone.  
 
We kneel down, eat dirt; and, when you are done, we dust it off of our knees, spit it out of our mouths and get back to our chores, like all good girls do.  
 
R.

holding a bottle in my
mouth
was all it took to
incite

out early for a bit of exercise
hotter
than I knew
I'd held it there merely the time to put a layer aside

certainly not an attempt to
intice
nor to acquire
a menacing shadow
the rest of my run
pre-sunrise

just hours before
I'd received another
unsolicited
invite

would I care to experience how a particular drummer's stick might feel from the
inside

just awaiting my mid-evening ride
not even drunken
midnight

I ignite

he picked that fight

twelve hours later
attempt to run it all away
I get hot
and find out it is

just

another

day

in

the

life

get home
turn on the télé
arrested another guy
wound up all tight
too late for her to ever be
alright

so

damn

ready

to shine this shit

bright.


R.