VIN 12- Women Are Killers (A Small Bit of Advice for Idiots)

A small bit of advice to idiots; Women are killers.

Think of the Lioness: a sleek, silent, and lethal predator that has evolved and adapted, honing itself into a perfect machine of hunting and rearing through the duality of huntress and mother, murderer and lover.

That result, compared to a male, whose role is largely to intimidate and maintain order, shows where real power lies.

Real power. The mental-kind– imagination-power.

Though this is not to say the males of the species are not also accomplished hunters, and thinkers, they lack the duality of the role nature has charged their females with. It is the Male’s mate, whom once he has frightened you into flight, closes for the kill. His mate who is lighter, stronger, faster, sleeker, and just as lethal– if not more, by virtue of motherhood. Her face is the last thing you see before your throat is gored.

Brutal. Visceral.

Now recognize she’s done infinitely more and worse to survive, to feed her cubs, Pride, and wards to ensure their total survival. She has likely seen death on equally as many faces.

Remember that fact.

Then recall this is ubiquitous to most females– mammals especially– and that predators most often prey upon the elderly, juvenile, weak, and wounded. Remember, most of all, this has been going on for millennia and has desensitized enough females to death to ensure their species’ survival.

Remember all of that next time you fuck with women or their rights; mated or not, you’re fucked.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: My Box

I haven’t left my box,
much at all this year.
Some say it’s a bad thing,
that I live in constant fear.

But the truth is,
my box is really quite large,
when my imagination descends,
and it takes charge.

Some people say that,
my box’s walls are uncouth.
I disagree,
but ’cause I know the truth:

That boxes,
ones both bigs and smalls,
are around us all each day,
most with invisible walls.

I like my box and keep it cool,
or in the winter cozy and warm.
But some still say my box,
does me lots of harm.

But I don’t believe it,
and I think I know why;
just between you and me,
my box has better views of the sky.

And ones of the beyond if I choose,
past the stars and the moon,
the sun and solar system,
to places so far, I can’t return soon.

Cause its out there I’m soaring,
while my hands remain here, writing.
And though my mind’s in the clouds,
it’s my box that keeps me here, safe

from fighting–
from crying,
from sighing,
or even white-lying.
‘Cause my box is like yours,
but different,
for it is ever,
adventure-supplying.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Sobriety’s Uncouth

A month in chains,
is worth a lifetime of dreams.
Shackled at the wrists.
Bound at the ankles,
I live on,
knowing my freedom,
lies on the other side,
of cages gray and iron,
of bars cold and blue.

This is the mind,
the point of view,
of a creature
whom, unlike you,
finds sobriety uncouth.

To it,
said state is stagnation;
a poison,
bearing things far worse than death,
for this creature,
thrives on imagination,
and revels in its every tainted breath.

When cut off from it–
the muse of the mind–
such creatures wither,
they die inside.

And while they can be reborn,
each time their fire is dimmed.
Until one day but embers,
coals of themselves,
mockeries of their former existence.
Wouldn’t you rather fly,
than die?

So heed this command;
let live and let live,
for though there may be impostors,
so too are there anomalies,
true-born freaks,
creatures of darkness,
whose counter to light,
can only be accepted,
not understood.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: A New World Emerges

I close my eyes,
for a moment in time,
and a world emerges.

Each time it is different:
inflamed and roiling,
or peaceful, serene.

But each time it changes,
as do I with it,
and I do my best to help you see it.

Perhaps I’m not too great at it.
Perhaps I’m best of all,
but all that matters is you see it.

War-torn. Burning.
Ashes. Embers.
Static-gray sky.

Or verdant, gleaming.
Fields of silent life,
that flits on by.

No matter the place,
I see it true,
and show it to you.

Remaining unique,
is hard in this age,
but I find I must try,

whether for me or you,
I can’t quite be sure,
but it is no less real nor tangible.

So again I close my eyes,
to view a world anew,
hoping, even fighting,
to convey its fruits to you.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Last Page Requiem

One last page on which to pen my thoughts.
One final word to be had.
A single series of lines,
letters, and words to be written,
before yet another clean slate.

I must reflect,
on what has come since,
the first of my ink touched these pages,
and there I find myself now.

Time and dedication;
the soul of all great things.
The sum of man’s endeavors,
can be found to contain these.

Am I any different?
Might any of us be?
After all we,
as me,
are Human.
Our muse, imagination,
our benefactor, perspiration.

The total of sweat, blood, tears,
is the product of divinity–
not the kind of myths,
nor Gods or deities,
instead that of hope and passion,
the welled ink of creation.

So on this last page, a requiem,
for all that’s come and gone,
in order to depart from the past,
and continue on into an even greater future.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Keep On My Way

Keys clack tales,
over the smell of black coffee.
Hands off the rails,
and mind rich like fresh toffee.

Worlds and cities.
Men and women.
All written as ditties,
from others once given.

The only time the keys ever stop,
are to light a smoke, swish coffee, or punch the clock.
Leaving me most days at the top,
but some others, weighted, beneath the dock.

Though I want no sympathy,
I must admit,
that when without empathy,
I often think to quit.

For life is short,
and death far too long,
to waste in the court,
of a lost lover’s song.

But something keeps me calling,
back on my muse,
and whether flying or falling,
I’m paying my dues.

Whether bound to in blood,
or by some sense of duty,
pages and pages I’ll flood,
whether with horror or beauty.

But I must reiterate,
that I’ve come close to starving,
hoping to instill,
mental or emotional carvings.

Without readers and others near me,
to keep me afloat,
I would drown in the sea,
of a success-surrounding moat.

For now I’ll just say,
that no matter the biting,
I’ll keep on my way,
and continue writing.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Imagination

Imagination

 

Limitless possibilities,

Lore and myth, religion,

Ever-expanding realities,

All imagination.

 

Have you dreamed colors that do not exist?

And are you uncertain of that lunar eclipse?

Can you think of a good, midnight twist?

Does your mind ever draw a single ellipse?

 

Is there a creature, a character or little miss priss?

Are they raving or looting or feeling love’s first kiss?

And what of your dashing protagonist?

Does he cry out in pain, or march through the mist?

 

Battles and Wars, science-fiction,

these are the fruits of imagination.

Terror and horrors, and grotesque lim-er-icks,

all at the mercy of unkind critics.

 

Is it their mother or father’s mishap

that led your M-C into all that claptrap?

Or is it a quick emanation of craft,

something you cooked up, to bore or to shaft?

 

A dream, and a screen, and a few words obscene

A satirical note for life’s lamentation,

Women preen with white cream in a deadly latrine

The signs of life in imagination.

 

A clock, and a tower, or a friendly courtyard

a tock without power, sent by a bard,

a Cock ne’er cower, when stripped of its lard,

and will not hock nor sour a stolen key-card.

 

And if you should find yourself at a wall,

a book from the shelf to you will call.

With open mind, read the page and stand tall,

for imagination will no longer stall.

 

Worlds and worlds on paper you’ll write,

this I have mentioned, it’s one way to fight,

the stagnation of a man, whom has no part,

but to play to the crowd through his only art.

 

Be it pictures, of photo or ink in your sight,

or something more, it shall be your right,

to poke and to prod ’til a new creation

spews from the well-spring of imagination.

 

Belabored or bred or trained through the night

All you need do is keep your aim tight,

sights on the sun or the sea, or mountains

imagine them all, and a few thousand more tons.

 

When hope springs eternal just look to the trees,

submerse yourself in determination.

To keep yourself afloat in rough seas,

keep your mind on imagination.

 

For hours and hours one could go on,

‘specially ’bout the prodigal fawn

but for now I believe we’re on the same page,

our hearts and brains, imagination? No cage.