From a tree swung two daughters, venomously hanged – a displayed masquerade of an enemygang. This was messaged to whom? And for what, and for why? From the womb to a tree, where they’d swung as they died. What a very strange fruit tree: she-blood at the roots; and where death exchanged beauty, two buds made a deuce.
Then fast-forward a while to a girl on a roof; a bit-part in the mix of an Indian soup, where it happens again by a boy to a girl where she screams as she’s raped and she’ll die once she’s burned.
In that country where cunts try to keep women down, where hypocrisy speaks and where murder’s allowed – it’s a broken, choked corner of our modern world where the worst things to be are these: women or girls.
But your daughters they sleep now; hear Mom’s lullaby: here’s my patter to keep while boys live as girls died. Before more girls’ besmirched, boys take heed of my note – learn and swallow the poison I’ll bleed down your throats; for I thought about what if it happened to mine – then I dreamed up death’s plan from a murdersome pine.
I will kill one by one and move on when I’m done – to the next man in line I will turn once he’s gone. I will first slice his face with a shattered wine glass, and the next thing he tastes will be blades up his ass. I shall twist them and cut him and stab him to life as he’ll wish; HOW he’ll wish I’d just finish by knife. He’ll then stay with me weeks – maybe months or a year as I promise each day to not eke out his fear.
For I swear to him each time I’ll kill him so fast but each day takes its time, so much longer than last. So then when will I put him right out of his pain? I know that I promised but shan’t be today…
…For I am the Red Mom of his wildest frightmares, who’ll replace his dark wires with scared Lily white hairs; I will keep him and torture his terrified skin to reflect and protect all our feminine kin. Here he’ll stay and be tortured by my finest ire; wrath of mothers the oxygen needed for fire.
Back in time I go now to have words ere he grows; to erase all the hatred and murder he knows. But what if I fail and I stumble and miss him? I won’t torture or kill for I’m fine just to listen. To learn is to teach and to teach is to learn; take a moment to study, while vengeance still burns.
I go right back in time to a childish young lad – where I witness the beatings by hand of his Dad, and I see how his past has his future sketched out – and remove from my mind any vengeance about.
Here he is at eleven, with scars for a face – and his father gives nothing but apathy’s gaze. And here now he is twenty; a fella with nothing – disrespecting himself with a fantasy rotten.
More than two children swung on that day from their ropes. If we climb on that roof…can we hear signs of hope?