Sirens
that is all you are
and will ever be
born to fuck
and bleed
enticing the weaker sex
with your charms
to enter into
a murderous
futile pact
You need to bring
yourself into fruition
but you need
men for that
to bring the fruits,
the children, fated to die,
into the world
Your vanity! Your irony!
You are only poetry.
Mani sang that
children were captive
spirits stolen from
the heavenly realm
but what if we do not
need any more stolen lives?
There are too many already
Either be true to the earth
and die from the fertility
of earth and woman
or, turn away from the earth
from fertility and the captivation
of the suffocating earth, as
Gaia suffered from the
imprisonment of her
children in her womb
at the crossroads, a spirit
whispers that there are three paths
survival, death and creativity
the monotonous will to live
and its narrow expectations
incites us toward death
as a welcome release from boredom
the trauma of Eros and Thanatos
The third path is a
turn from mere fertility
toward the satyric dance
of excess and expenditure
we need no longer to save the seed
the dark horizons of the bad infinite
engulf our faith in mere reproduction
the woman who wishes to be other
than the prescription of fertility
provokes the storm of abandonment
Woman is no longer just one thing
She is many things, many classes, networks
The image of the mother has its supplements
a caste system of feminine differance
the whores in the bedroom look
across the great divide to
the angels in the garden
sex and death impossibly ironic
perverse proliferations in
the wake of the death of God
a seething excession of
erotic simulacrum
the whores, those
of the other feminine
dancing far from the
mother and the angel
the feminine lies in fragments
upon the sacrificial space of violence
of birth, life and death
of mere reproduction, survival
the anxiety of inexorable death
Your vanity did this, your wish
to come to fruition, to fulfill
that primal aspect of your possibility
But – did you ever think about
what you have done?
Thrown your children into the
jaws of death – you are a murderess!
What do we do with a killer?
Do we not punish her, chastise her
as was Justine, punished for her
virtue, for her faith in the will to live
There is indeed enough punishment
to go around for these whores as
the sport of humiliation becomes
a household word and ritual
nymphs stalk the streets
seeking cash, cigarettes, drugs
and alcohol, an escape from
the treadmill of indoctrination
instillation of the first image
neuroses of sex and death
They do not hear the whispers
of the other path, or they
are trained to extinguish
these feelings of rebellion
from a life of mere irony
the image of the mother
is mere irony, the impossible
Woman is in fragmentation
the father is dead
the law of the father
is a ghost which haunts
the weaker sense as he
wallows in his emasculation
no longer of any significance
with the fragmentation of woman
man also undergoes dispersion,
displacement, substitution
Man is in fragmentation
Woman is no longer the idyll
but the trough of ecstasy
but also the pristine repressed
virgin, the practical partner,
the sister, mother, and aunt
I am not supposed to desire
my mother or daughter
I substitute these longings.
longings that have been
ascribed to me by science
to the other female, the
other feminine, toward
woman in fragmentation
Posted in Culture, Eroticism, France, French, Literature, Mythology, Nietzsche, Occult Stories, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Pope, religion, Sex, Subversion, writing
