Modern day Apothecary, distributed by our local shaman minus the spiritual guidance. Dealers are the immoral witches of our time, and magic is condemned by the state.
‘ You can drive the devil from your garden, but you will find him again in the garden of your son.’ – Heinrich Pestslozzi on the mental state of his son.
‘It is a well known and common paradox that parents take up this grudging attitude towards their children (understandable in view of their envy) and at the same time urge him on to greater achievements and (in identification)are proud of his success.’- Alice Miller, The drama of being a child, 1987.
Why shall I not speak my mind? it’s not long for dust in a distant memory of old age, when I think back on a time when I use to be empty.
What profound mystery will unlock keys to a time where my voice was small? What wasted days of non- sensible narcism fuelled by fires and demons of the damned family tree…
Some days I with to run away and hide.
Now I know for sure that I don’t know at all. Not knowing but it feels like emptiness but no one knows for sure…the only thing we do know is that the devils in the garden.
‘While the ‘O’ suggests Ophelia, the symbolic circle or or cipher of feminine sexual mystery.’
– Elaine Showalter.
‘ Recent studies have begun to investigate oxytocin’s role in various behaviors, including orgasm, social recognition, pair bonding, anxiety, and maternal behaviors. For this reason, it is sometimes referred to as the “bonding hormone.
‘Lauren and Ashy are going off their brains! It’s the fuckin festival of the moon!’ – Dad.
A sensuous siren of the Ophelia cult, romantics aching for the kiss of death and relief from loves heart breaks.
Upon the stars, from with dreams descend, goes wishes and preyers for contentment, spells to the moon cry out fulfil my empty heart with the excitement, tenderness and richness of youth.
A mental vexation, bewitched by oxytocin and a lovers kiss, leaves me wanting and waiting in unbearable lonely, mysteria. Each moment dissolves in the restless hours until meeting sweet loves gaze.
White picket fences and wedding dresses, those things are nice but they are not for me.
Men don’t see me as a flower, they see me a whore. And what do whores get? They get fucked in the dirt.
Serve my purpose on my hands and knees, fulfilling mans sexual needs, once done, take your shit and fuck off, don’t forget to bandage those hurts.
No wonder now I spend my days in a H.S. Thompson cloudy haze,doing drugs, reading books and spitting on my feminine ways.
‘The beautiful woman, whose disordered body and mind are exposed – and opposed – to the scrutiny of the man who has the authority to unchain her.’
– Elaine Showalter on Tony Robert-Fleury’s “Pinel freeing the insane,” 1887.