- The Killing Gene
She was the victim of a violent crime
enacted in the dead of winter
l986.
Inhabiting the alien skin of
A Warrior's spawn
And a Lover's changeling
She spites death.
She fights
The shock and denial
The guilt and the shame
The anxiety and companion fears,
And then, the rage came.
In rage,
She is reborn.
A human subrogation.
Enlisting hate to subjugate
She answers the call
"To arms!"
Brandishing blood lust
Braying vile slanders
Savoring the seductive smell of conquest
Trolling and chumming the sea of sexual revolution
Routing a hapless victim from its verdant depths
Sucking life from his lying lips
And bathing in his blood
She cries, " Victory!"
"Annihilation, annihilation,
for there is no rehabilitation
for the men who would do violence
to the innocent human soul."
Knowing all the while,
This righteous cause
Will be
Her ruin.
From the bowels of birthing a seed that spawned destruction
Choking on life's bilious labor
Suffocating in the throes of a violent, twisting rage
Screaming the dirge of the dead
Vomiting up a feast of fear
She delivers up a child into the yawning jaws of death
The sanctity of life
a sacrifice
upon the altar of courage.
"I know what the Killing Gene's offspring look like.
They should be hunted like rabid dogs
and shot."
Let the hunt begin.
Plotting annihilation because there is no rehabilitation
Bowed by the disgrace of misplaced honor and fouled reputation
She shuns the chauvinist's whim of noble motive
It stinks of abortive reason and charred conscience.
"Look up, little ones,
Your redemption draweth nigh
for, dawns this day, in the city of justice,
the final day of judgment of the damned".
She never wanted the contamination of men's blood upon her hands. She recites by rote the reactionary's creed.
"I did not start the war."
But confessing half-truths forms inherent faults,
Fissures in the holy union,
Mocking peaceful resolution.
There will never be
Peace in Mississippi, Jimi
It is simply
pity
A creeping contempt,
cloaked in
compassion's disquieting disguise.
Gorged on another's guilt,
Bitterness, religiously begs blood rituals.
It's kill, or be killed.
A Warrior Woman,
Uniformed in pity, polished with the slain's infidelities,
She struts polite aplomb. Alone.
All her society ceases from a
Failure to thrive syndrome,
Symptomatic of an incomplete trust.
She is unable to locate all the mutilated pieces
To assemble a complete shield of trust.
It's the part of her amour that was ripped away and stolen,
It's not what the Offspring were searching for.
Dismembered Trust had no intrinsic value to them.
It couldn't be fenced or pawned,
Like feelings or passion, so
Trust was discarded along life's road.
Vanquished, all.
Solitary, she swaggers among the maimed.
Spitting on the corpses, and cursing the dying, she snears,
"How the mighty have fallen!
Death slow dances with such seductive allure. O vain man."
She is a lone survivor.
Dedicated to Jimi Hendrix,
Peace in Mississippi, Voodoo Soup soundtrack.
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