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.
Sometime my life seems so unreal. In retrospect many of the most dramatic events often seem somewhere between a dream and voyeurism.
I was once the victim of a very public and violent assault by my ex partner, in a city bar after one of our club gigs.
A silly argument turned irrational in a moments flash and before I could react I had be king -hit in the face, kicked repeatedly in the head and face while I curled around trying to protect myself.
I felt my face swell, my nose bleed, my ears pop and ring, my stomach curl in and ache with such intensity I thought I might vomit.
A useless drug fiend stood and watched the whole attack, not quite understanding what the hell was happening and failing to assist in any manner.
In what seemed like eternity, or perhaps a few minutes security guards came and pulled my partner away from me as his continued screaming and spitting venomously at me like a mad man. My only recourse was to run and get in a cab, go home and put some ice on it, sleep it off like a wild hang over that had got the better of me.
I guess a weird psychological stance is well in play when one doesn’t consider such an indiscretion grounds for departure.
The next day, when the beast came home, he promised he would ‘never hurts me again.’
( Such a simple promise, which would go on to be broken again and again.)
I phoned work with some relief to tell them I wouldn’t be coming to work as I was well, I wouldn’t be in all week until my black and swollen eye deflated and nosy customers would ask nosy questions about what happened it how I was feeling.
Later that year I was assaulted again and again) Had a dinner plate (with dinner) smashed in to my face, causing a sever bleed and a trip to the Emergency room.
Another time I tried to escape the insanity and hide with my back hard up against the bed room door, only to have to kicked and broken over me.
The saddest thing is I love this man more than anyone on earth. I preyed for his heart and wanted to give him a sense of belonging after losing his mother to suicide. I figured we both lost our hearts to suicide, so perhaps we’d find love for one another on common ground.
Instead my entire world became so small. domestic servitude and emotional servitude ate up my sense of self worth and four years of my life.
The world is held together by a fine, chemical web.
I long for the sound of your voice more than any music in the world.
Drunken poetry and a mischievous heart to lead me astray and pass the blame…
By far a too precious a thing, like an enchanting spell, an intoxicating unity as I look intensely to know who you really are…
I want nothing more than to be close to your warm nature, embraced on a cold morning and feel a sense of sensual transcendence.Here I am Madonna and a whore…