MEN
Time was, God was a woman.
The day God ceased being a woman was the day the masculine determined woman was not sole progenitor, was not ouroboros. All respect and reverence were lost. The celestial cum cow, birth-giver and nurturer of all, was demoted to terrestrial cum cow.
Thus fell the Great Mother, buried in a shallow grave, and ascended our aloof sky daddy, the new ouroboric sole progenitor whose man-made doctrines and principles would be used in self-interest improperly understood—in the masculine’s self-interest: “a tautological condition that exists only for itself and is without any meaning in the general context of human life” (Angela Carter, The Sadeian Woman).
And so God is man or, rather, MEN.
MEN is insecure. MEN’s ego is fragile. MEN is vain and demands worship. MEN is especially demanding of the worship of those who are the least like him. In times of precarity, he knows people will turn to him; and he is responsible for that very precarity.
MEN don’t give a fuck about you or me.
In cumpetition with the Great Mother’s legacy, the green man, or divine masculine, was reborn in mutated form as the monstrous masculine. The monstrous masculine began using feminine creative and sexual power against the feminine. It expropriated the ouroboric self-fecundating principle, took possession of the female body and womb, giving birth to the male death sun/son over and over again.
Whatever we do, and whatever we don’t, there’s a man at the end of our vagina holes—those devil’s gateways, cave openings to Hades—deciding our rights, renting our wombs, leaving our uterine underworlds derelict and blighted, spawning a long line of pussies who give birth to man-babies.
MEN (2022)
Patriarchal religion has co-opted fertility and the self-fecundating principle. (See the movie MEN for an astoundingly grotesque and palpably visceral body horror dramatization of this.) The green man, having been divorced from the divine masculine totality, becomes only-monstrous—a mutation in the divine genetic pool, the monstrous out of balance.
It’s a mutation in the sex, this male “monster” who keeps giving birth to more and more horrifying versions of itself, with an innate need to control, dominate, and do harm to the feminine under the guises of love, morals, principles, law and order, the will of God, while subduing, undermining, co-opting, overwriting, and effacing the feminine.
Non-men live this every single day, every second we breathe, in ways that are invisible to everyone but non-men. It is sometimes invisible even to the feminine, excepting those of us who’ve taken the trouble, endured the inconvenience, the ordeal, of Awakening.
Despite living it every second we breathe, those of us for whom it is not invisible struggle to articulate or even remember it once we arrive at it, as though our memories are erased by the monstrous masculine the very moment we Awaken. We must remember and re-remember and re-re-remember as though every day we are born anew, born dead-alive in the living hell that is life as woman.
The cognitive dissonance, the double-bind, has ripped out our tongues, gouged out our eyes, making us proper Lavinia–Cassandras.
I try to talk, but out comes ‘moo.’ I think of words I want to speak, but ‘moo’ is all I can do.
It is double detriment. Forever infantilized, we are terrestrial cum calves.
“Apple core” (Chinatown): the key hidden in the first act, the maiden in the mother—She’s my sister and my daughter!—the way god the father co-opted the apple-womb, disrupting the three-form goddess, fucking the maiden to create the mother, then fucking the maiden born from incest-rape to create a new maiden for fucking, to produce more maiden-daughter-harlots who get fucked in such a manner, perpetuating a long line of maiden-daughter-harlots who keep getting fucked in such a manner, and that’s the ouroboric self-fecundating principle as we know it under the patriarchal monstrous masculine.
The whole point of setting it up to look like Evelyn killed her husband was so the monstrous masculine pedophile can repeat and perpetuate the cycle of abuse. The impotent, ineffectual monstrous masculine fucks his own children to be able to get it up and live like a god in the god complex sense—above the law, without a moral compass, no empathy.
Whatever we do, and whatever we don’t, we are women under the influence. Even when not directly in monstrous masculine presence, we coercively operate within a male-generated, male-centric, male-dominated framework. To operate within this framework is deleterious to the feminine mind and heart; it is spirit-breaking; it is soul-destroying. To aspire to success and status within this framework is doubly deleterious and dissolutive, as it often necessitates taking on characteristics of the monstrous masculine, playing his game, becoming him.
We process personal, generational, and ancestral trauma, if we even begin to process it, while continuing to experience it. We accrue more trauma than we can process and pass it onto future generations. This is our archaic heritage.
At least we got our entropy’s worth?
Hades Ladies
Perverse pollinators need sick, broken roses within whom to feel less sick and broken. The healthier the blossom, the more feeble and infirm the perverse pollinator in comparative consumption. And so the rose in life’s springtime, though comely and nubile, is less appealing unless, and until, fouled. A double bind, as fouling the bloom leaves the perverse pollinator little choice but to refuse and discard it, not before mastering the refuse, igniting the blighted blossom, trash fire in bloom.
Which is why they make you spread it wide and cum all over it.
Perverse pollinators make bee-lines between hysterical wandering pomegranate wombs. Wombanizers, tough as resilient bacteria, they insert themselves. Two in the crown, thumb in the stem end, aggro-passionately, giving hysterical pomegranates chronic candidiasis and BV, making forbidden fruits ever more hysterical.
Perverse pollinators blow their dandelion seeds, mutate the flora hard to the touch, incubate more of their kind inside the disease.
The male death sun is risen.
The male death son is come again.
Perverse pollinators, babies born men who stay babies, these Great Motherless, Great Mother-Loverless man-boys sprout pussies from which they pop out more pussies like hocked loogies. No binky can pacify, though great big cum cow tits are widely sought after.
The male g(r)aze has put the celestial cum cow out to pasture.
The male death son is cum again (and again).
Perverse pollinators, simultaneously the cure and the disease, the cure symbiotic with the disease, the cure that invented the disease, the cure that self-reproduces the disease to give itself effectuality, purpose.
Like Hades, perverse pollinator who needs sick, broken women to feel less sick and broken beside. With no dearth of mutated flora and bruised fruits in his dominion, Hades is always a ladies man.
Hades Ladies, wandering hysterical pomegranates, stackable like matryoshka dolls never put away neatly in the toybox. Short stacks, double-decker sandwiches, ready to pinch hit for that anti-impotence drip, we take the man at his charlatanry, at his glib. From the udder of the terrestrial cum cow relegated to the meat class flow primordial tributaries of fire to the Phlegethon, the brimstone that would purify us like alchemical salt which instead, to cremains, burns us.
Hades Ladies, no fuss, no muss—just dust, ashes to ashes to Playboy Dust Bunnies with post-human pain thresholds, emotional muscle memory of the pussy-heart; rape the shakti, and the wholesome hole keeps the score.
Which is why they make you spread it wide and cum all over it.
Hades ladies, low priestesses, we perform black tantra on ourselves. Trauma-kinked, down on our knees, each time we survive, we secretly crave a little death: I’ll rim your star anise, I’ll lick your wars clean, the familiar comfort of psycho-spiritual torture, right here in Hades where, after a time, we ourselves are the purveyors of fire and ice.
Hades, repo man, possesses us then exorcises us then fills us with more demons for him to exorcise and repossess, the limp dick we shove inside to clog delight, The Dick Inside we use to fake it.
When Hades found my Dick Inside, my psyche butterflied, and he came upon entry.
That’s why spoilers don’t bother me.
He spoiled me, mama!
Hades ladies, forbidden fruits poisoned, immaculate concepts diving headlong into romantic abysses. When we hear the call of the void, we answer.
You drew a heart on my thigh with your surgical steel pinwheel torture device, and of all the lines you drew, of all the lines you crossed, that phantom heart you drew on my thigh was the most agonizing of all sensations…
Hades ladies, we were mentally ill before you drove us crazy; we were mentally ill before you drove us crazy about you.
Hades, the total-package dumpster fire whose gaslight flames eternal, loves the ladies who don’t love themselves, and we love him back; the more self-hate, the more his bident rises to the occasion, the more our baby teeth liquify, spotting brown-pink, the better to cry villainy.
Perverse pollinators, split between the fresh and spoiled, the molested and unmolested, need sick roses whose flaws in the iris make us easier to file away as serial numbers in rolodexes and Dewey decimals in decrepit halls of records in dust mite dust bunny minds.
Hades ladies, at once captor and captive, return to Hades year after year because we like the toxic dick, projector light reflected in solar eclipse eyes, in Hades alone may we remove the rib, toss it aside, to reclaim the principle.
Hades ladies, far from ourselves, everything we love, into the vast, deep, gaping nothing, psychopomps of our own lost souls, the cracked leading ourselves to the light, The Dick Inside becomes us, and we become you.
Hades ladies Lazarus, we’re the perverse pollinators, mister, spreading our lilim far and wide; we don’t need sick, broken men to feel less sick and broken beside.
Which is why we make you spread it wide and cum all over it.