Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.

Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** *******.
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.

From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-****** night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.

Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings.)

The nightmare
The simulation
The infection
The asphyxiation
The infibulation
The inebriation
The tyrannical grip
The hammer on your ******
The needle in your eyeball
The wrench up your prostate
The boot up your face
The finger in your mouth
The bomb in your place of comfort, after a long day doing nothing at all, just being.
The shoelace untied.
The brain with too much **** folded in your heart with no escape.
You want to ******* EXPLODE
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
bang
Sprawled out like bugs.
You wanted sone simple understanding, you wanted a biscuit with tea and maybe a back massage, but it's all too late.
Too late for the dreamer, and the 'talky' kid
Soon enough it will be over. I dont want to be anything or anyone.
I want quiet,
No words, no words no more words. No words and no resolve because there never is