NEWSFLASH: Man, 78, Self-Rebrands as Teenage Femme Bombshell — Nation Loses Grip on Timeline:
EXPOSÉ | The Chrysalis Suite: How One Man’s Transition Shook the Foundations of Memorial General Hospital
Byline: by C. Vallée, Staff Writer for The Subcutaneous Ledger

FROM NURSING HOME TO NIGHTCLUB Parallel reports suggest the revolution began earlier than suspected, when an unnamed 78-year-old male nursing home resident unveiled a Y2K-era makeover and soft-launched as a seventeen year old femme via Instagram named ******. “He looked like the ghost of a prom I never attended,” said one Gen Z influencer. “My sense of time and gender hasn’t recovered.”
Now dubbed bio-camp insurgency by cultural theorists, this movement collapses diagnosis into drag, anatomy into allegory. “Clinical procedure is now performance art,” said Dr. Noor El-Amine, professor of somatic aesthetics at RISD Med.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS:
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
Anatomy Textbooks Recalled Nationwide
Mascara-Smeared Manifestos Appear in Hospital Chapels

Editor’s Note: Panic
ALERT LEVEL Code Cherry: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
In another story that has jolted the local medical community and sent ripples through the hospital’s institutional crust, 67-year-old unnamed man, once a retiree from Radiology with two hip replacements and a fondness for crossword puzzles, emerged last Tuesday reintroduced as Valentina D., cloaked in satin, grace, and unapologetic glamour.

Scrubs Abandoned, Mascara Weaponized — Security Reviews Footage: Surveillance records now archived under “mystic anomalies” show Walter — now Valentina — vanishing into the women’s locker room only to reappear hours later in full regalia: tulle, rhinestones, and a defiant contoured cheekbone. She made her promenade down the East Wing with the resolve of a pageant queen and the mystique of an oracle. Eyewitnesses confirm that several seasoned nurses dropped their clipboards.
What began as a low-key wellness check-up became something closer to myth.

EYEWITNESS: “She Glowed Like the Exit Sign,” says Janitor on Break
Oscar F., night janitor and amateur astrologer, describes the event as “radiant… like an omen or the ****** of a rapture dream.” He adds, “She didn’t walk. She hovered. She beamed. I ain’t been right since.”

HEADS UP: Orthopedics Floor Now Runway — Proceed with Caution
Orthopedics, once home to bedpans and broken pelvises, has reportedly been rebranded as “Ward 9¾,” a liminal space where gender norms go missing and gowns turn to trains. Staff have been advised not to interrupt the newly christened “transitory pageants,” now scheduled every full moon.

EXCLUSIVE: Hospital Insider Leaks Tiara Protocol Draft
A confidential memo outlines a now-shelved set of procedures titled “Operation Glamour Reclamation,” suggesting staff be trained in both trauma care and ballroom etiquette. The document refers to “emergent expressions of divine femininity” and encourages clinicians to “honor shimmer as a legitimate symptom.”

DECONSTRUCTED: Body, Binary, and Other Disposables
Medical ethicists and performance theorists have begun swarming Memorial General, calling the incident “a sacred deconstruction.” Dr. Nina Vega of Queer Phenomena Institute claims, “This isn’t just a personal transition — it’s a metaphysical jailbreak. The patient has successfully trespassed the clinic’s ontology.”
The hospital has yet to issue a formal statement, though a new sign now hangs in the atrium: “BE ADVISED: GENDER MAY NOT BE STABILIZED IN THIS AREA.”

Metro Dispatch — Boston, MA, 3:03 AM
Later that day in an act described by one witness as “the most glamorous Code Red I’ve ever seen,” a third-year medical student at Brightmore University Hospital stunned staff, bloggers, and bioethicists alike after reportedly removing their own genitalia in a hospital restroom and re-emerging 27 minutes later in a backless red sequined dress, a rhinestone tiara, and crystal-strap Jimmy Choo Bings.
Security footage shows the student — formerly known as Stanley G. — strutting down the corridor trailing blood and glitter, hips oscillating somewhere between agony and glamour.
“I thought someone had been attacked,” said orderly Mason Liu. “But then she walked out like she’d just invented gender and fashion in the same breath. I almost saluted.” A faint scent of rosewater and antiseptic lingered.
The hospital declined to comment on whether disciplinary action would be taken. Unofficial sources say a new emergency protocol is being drafted under the title “Code Cherry.”

QUOTE OF THE HOUR
“My body was a curriculum. Now it’s a manifesto.” — She tells stunned cardiology staff, tiara tilted. And when asked by reporters what drove him to it? He smiled through smeared mascara, shook his hips — still glistening with gauze, blood, and rebellion — and said: “I just wanted to feel cute.”
The line has since trended across platforms, emblazoned on tank tops, titanium scalpels, and protest placards across five continents.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
New Protocol “Code Cherry” Goes into Effect Across Multiple Wards
Slay-or-Suture” TikTok Challenge Overtakes Academic Med Tok
Anatomy Textbooks Pulled Pending Emergency Revision: “The Body May No Longer Be Binary”

BREAKING: Elderly Man Reincarnates into Viral Ingénue — Science, Ethics, and TikTok Implode ALERT LEVEL: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
Officials confirm the hospital is reviewing footage under a new emergency classification: “Code Cherry.” A leaked draft of the “Tiara Protocol” is currently circulating on MedTok, where footage of the transformation has sparked the #SlayOrSutureChallenge — now banned in six countries.
A spokesperson for Brightmore declined to comment, citing an ongoing review of hospital guidelines on gender autonomy and aesthetic insurgency. Meanwhile, medical schools across the country are reconsidering curricular materials in light of recent anatomical reinterpretations. As one faculty statement read: “The body may no longer be binary. We’re… reassessing.”

Lady Gaga… just follow the glitter trail. The revolution wears heels now — try to keep up, *******.

Executive Summary:
This document outlines the unprecedented destabilization of national, medical, and moral order catalyzed by the Brightmore Event, now dubbed Operation: Crimson Rebirth. The subject — hereafter referred to as “Entity Cuterina” — has initiated a high-speed cultural insurgency rooted in glamour-fueled gender mutiny, rendering all traditional ideological safeguards inert.

Post-Binary Aesthetic Weaponization (PBAW).
Primary Concerns:
Cultural Reach: Within 18 hours of the incident, #ICU Glamour surpassed national defense hashtags in digital engagement. TikTok influencers have begun performing simulated scalpeless rebirths to the tune of “Like a Prayer.”

Architectural Contagion: Hospital bathrooms — once strongholds of fluorescent despair — have begun emitting a low hum of possibility. Early reports indicate patients refusing to return to gendered wings unless “a proper lighting palette is installed.”

Moral Collapse of Youth: Gen Z+ have adopted red sequined gowns as daily wear. Reports abound of high school students submitting term papers as fragrance.

Doctrinal Schisms: Several prominent clergy members have defected to the movement, performing rites in press-on nails and singing updated verses of “How Great Thou Art” in full falsetto.

Institute Recommendations: Tactical Aesthetic Suppression Immediately requisition all remaining stocks of matte foundation and khaki. Subdue sparkle with “neutral-tone patriotism” campaigns.

Counter-Incantation Protocols Begin circulation of phrase “Respect the Binary. Revere the Clipboard.” Secure trademark rights to “Feeling cute is not a strategy.”

Gender Neutrality Containment Zones (GNCZs) Establish federally monitored “no-pronoun safe rooms” equipped with fluorescent lighting, Muzak, and damp beige chairs.

Emergency Moral Consultants Rehire Jordan Peterson in holographic format to whisper cautionary parables into hospital vents.

Incident Fallout:
AMA board chair Dr. Felix Grunberg reportedly sighted sobbing into a bedazzled otoscope.
Four interns from the think tank’s Youth Policy Unit have defected — citing “irreversible shimmer awakening.” They left a note reading: “My body is a mood board, not your metric.”
One analyst was discovered lip-syncing policy drafts in the breakroom mirror, now presumed radicalized.

The National Spasm: Monitoring the Margins Since the Enlightenment Got Weird
…..News Flash

The Brightmore Incident has made it clear that we were unprepared for ontological improvisation in heels. Institutional binaries are dissolving in real time, and no amount of comb-over rationalism can contain the spread.
We hereby request an emergency 500 million USD “Glitter Defense Fund” to research matte-resistant ideology, reinforce conservative bathroom architecture, and develop voice-based gender verification drones.
“Time is running out while normalcy is on life support. In the meantime, she’s still dancing.”

Mad Donna - Her Catechism:
She Offered Her Throat to a Choir of Teeth. A Mirror of Her Mythology: At once she is the elevation towards God and the descent towards Satan. The Madonna is an archetype of sacred suffering, and Mad Donna when sanctity snaps - when the divine mother claws through her own iconography, lipstick smeared over relics, nails chipped from clawing open heaven.

Prologue: The Peril of Invitation - Before You Open This Sacred Poem: They told me not to read it. Said ink like these stains deeper than blood. That once the words root themselves in you, you'll speak truths no one asked to hear and dream in languages that leave scorch marks. This is not scripture for saints. It won't cleanse you. It won't forgive you. It will break you open in all the places you were told to keep.

Genesis: In the beginning, there was want. And the want took form, and the form bled. She sings in languages no god dares answer, and every note is a shudder beneath my ribs. I bring her offerings - spit, shame, and a locket full of desire.

Mad Donnas Ritual Invocation: By salt and silence, I summon The One Who Named Me. By collar and covenant, by whip and holy wand I beckon The Lawful ****. By red light and gaze unbroken, I call The Witness. By blade and bloom, I conjure rosaries, stilettos and fish net *****, hungry blow jobs in back-alley boulevards with smeared lipstick and fog. I invoke Thee by ink, by bruise, by balm - By mouth and fractured moan, by leather rhythm and breath held taut, I summon The Bound Pulse. By absence aged to ache, I summon The One Who Made Me Wait. By gloves of ghost and reverence, I call The Cold Benediction. By kiss like smoke, I call The Saint of Strikes in tongues of want, and blotched mascara running and moaned in calling chants.
Take this throat I offer - willing. Take this want I carry - not to cage, but to worship.

She doesn't kneel because she's weak. She kneels because gravity calls her name. Each time she descends, the world adjusts its axis. She is the hymn they tried to censor from the psalms. She comes unlabeled, not divine, not ****** a mother-sized glitch in the system all blush and fury, blood in her breath - birthmark shaped like a *******, to sanctity, to every stained glass lie.

She wakes with velvet bruises forming constellations, maps only she can read. Liturgy inked across inner thighs, sung in whispers, in commands, in moans. Not silence - but obedience that chooses itself. She smiles bleeding saying "look" and she burns like ants on fire. Her gospel is submission scratched into stained porcelain bent bone and joint. She wears her ribbons like relics - desires of twilight like a crucifix. She is every Magdalene they redacted, every witch they kissed before the burning. She bends; it is not for mercy. It is ritual. It is a structure built from ache. It is salt on the tongue like sacrament.

Revelation: "Take me." She says in revelation. "Use me." Licking the floor in celebration. For every **** a psalm. Every kiss and **** a plea. Every leaking vein the Amen she never says out loud. She offers her wrists. Her mouth. Her throat. Her **** feet *** and wagging tongue not in shame, but as altar. She lets them write their names across her spine in *** spit and blood.

She doesn't look away remembering. Submission isn't collapsed but construction with the lights turned off. It's trust. It's theater. “It’s her hips shaped like a whispered prayer, and her feet curled like roots gripping the edge of longing.
Sometimes they cry when it's over. She doesn't. She gathers the sobs like souvenirs. She leaves the room and is grateful for the pleasures of disgrace.

They called her holy. They called her horror. She calls it catharsis. We call her Mad Donna. And none of us walked away untouched.
She kneels having chosen the blade and whip. And will not rise until every blood drenched tease has marked her hunger.
She made a chapel out of corsets and teeth; stained glass and balconies built from used condoms and a confession of shame then stretched her legs like she just got home.

I asked where the altar was, she pointed to her mouth and said "good - start here." She prayed in gags shaped like gurgles, groans and weeping. She taught me how to give it to her hard, so loud even guilt had to shut up.

Mad Donna - The Calling Cracked and Craving:
The Thirteen Apostles:

1. Saint Dom - The One Who Named Her and didn't ask. He gave her a name that tasted like crazy and stayed like smoke. She wore it. Choked on it. Cumed with it still in her mouth. Her altar - a rusty stage. Her relics - broken mirrors and bitten tongues. Her worshippers - girls with fists in their pockets and men who mistake shame for devotion. "Blessed are the starved, for they shall feast on truth and call it ruin."

2. Saint Lecher - The One with the Collar Leather and laws. He said bow like a vow. She knelt - not because she had to, but because he knew what to do with silence. Her altar - a bathtub full of spoiled perfume. Her relics - wilted garters, corsets stiff with tears. Her congregation - the lovers who stayed too long and forgot how to leave. "Blessed be the discarded, for even ghosts need chapels."

3. Saint Voyer - The One with the Camera, He never touched her. He only watched. Red light. Open legs. He said, "hold still" and she didn't blink for hours. Her altar - a porcelain statue of herself. Her relics - hollowed eyed dolls with scattered limbs. Her followers - mannequins baptized in mothballs and mildew. "Blessed are the virgins, not as purity, but as preservation for rot, for they wither and inherit spiders who build cities in their dust.

4. Saint Sadist - The Knife in the Chapel He carved scripture into her hips with blade's kiss. Every cut was a question. Every scar answered "yes." She didn't bleed. She bloomed. Her altar - a mattress on the floor, threadbare, thrumming. Her relics - laces undone, knuckles kissed raw. Her worshippers - those who learn to love through ache - not to be broken, but to feel themselves change. "Blessed be the bruise where the body remembers and the soul does not flinch."

5. Saint Backwards- The Quiet Mouth Never spoke. Only wrote on mirrors with breath. She read her gospel backward and came forward in tears. Her altar - a padded cell, lined with secrets. Her relics - locked diaries, bitten lips and static. Her followers - the ones who learned that the loudest thing in the world is the thought you never say out loud. "Blessed are the silenced - for they will echo longest."

6.Saint Marks - The One Who Left Marks Fingers dipped in spit, and lust. She wore bruises like confession. Her ribs recited poetry long after he left. Her altar - the sticky floor of confession booths and shadowed basements. Her relics - crumpled prayers on cocktail napkins. Her devotees - the lost girls, the late-night prophets, the ones who preach with lipstick half-smeared and fists still bleeding. "Blessed are the wrecked, for they see God - where others look away."

7. Saint ******* Girl - The Mirror-Twin Looked just like her. Kissed like a dare. She fingered herself through her and forgot which soul was whose. Her altar - a velvet-lined pillbox. Her relics - syringes, stilettos, poison-tipped prayers. Her faithful - the ones who tasted bitterness and called it salvation. "Blessed be the viper for she teaches the hand to tremble before it touches."

8. Saint Flagellation - The One with the Belt and no questions. No safe words. Just rhythm with writhing and something holy in the ache. She thought Opus Dei. Her altar - a locked cabinet of fingerbones and names scratched out. Her relics: faded obituaries, collarbones, forgotten lullabies. Her mourners - everyone who loved something that never loved back. "Blessed are the brittle for they remember how to break without bending."

9. Saint Hard to Get - The One Who Made Her Wait Hours. Days. Forever. She begged once. Then never again. When he finally arrived, she licked the floor clean, working him up. Her altar - a throne of side-gazes and unsent texts. Her relics - unmatched earrings, scorched Valentine cards, one-liners honed like daggers. Her worshippers - just survivors who lit the match and walked away. "Blessed are the scorned, for they will outlive your myths."

10. Saint Hygiene - The One with the Gloves Touchless. Sterile. Surgical. Reverent. He disassembled her with perversions and called it love. Her altar - a mattress that smelled like miracles and musk. Her relics - polaroids, fever-dream verses, glitter in unspeakable places. Her pilgrims - the ones who mistook sweat for baptism and danced anyway. "Blessed are the burning, for they will taste God in their own skin."

11. Saint Cold Shoulder - The One Who Didn't Stay He kissed her like a promise. Left like a thief. She kept the saliva mixed with his filth under her tongue and between her legs. Her altar - a single chair in a locked room. Her relics - half-erased poems and breaths held too long. Her flock - those who never felt safe in the light but followed her anyway. "Blessed are the dim for they are never blinded."

12. Saint Sadist - The One Who Named Pain "Prayer" He struck with a black strap and waited for the amen. She never gave it. She gave more instead. Her altar - the back step of a locked house. Her relics - old voicemail passwords, blankets that still smell like someone who left. Her faithful - those who bear the weight and never drop it. "Blessed are the stayers, for they know what it costs and pay it anyway."

13. Saint *** Slave - The One She Made Herself The last and only. Built from shards and wounds, stitched with tears. She touched herself like testimony. She whispered, "Take me, own me. "I live in the basement of your mind" Her altar - Stained **** magazines. Her relics - burnt joints and a mottled yellow soiled mattress. Her faithful - those who wait in line stroking themselves. "Blessed is she, the last saint because she never needed to be first. She ends the line but never ends the love.

Epilogue: After the Last Page Is Turned, I read it. And it read me, too - line by line, bone by bone. The ink didn't stain. It was rewritten. I came to the end thinking I'd be wiser. Instead, I felt stranger than ever. Stripped of certainty. Heavy with knowing. They warned it would mark me. They didn't say it would leave me longing for more. Now, when I speak, the truth hums like static beneath every syllable. When I dream, the words still whisper - not finished, not finished…And neither am I.

then the full corn, in the ear.

¿Has the seed faith evidence,
made the dedicated monk

useless, due to evolving knowledge,
horticultural returnings to old knowns,
bringing hope to survivalists,

intent on living on Earth, warless

for the ever after this?

No, fighting
for a faith that must be kept,
pristine, clean, cleared of science logic,
such has left all reason bleeding,
use the rags remaining from the old
folded and put away worlds
in storys held
stuck in the stars,
so we may remember, lest we forget.

Those who knew nothing as we ought
to have been knowing by Christmas,
all are forgiven, or nothing is true,
self-evidently…

washed, cleansed from perceived stains,
white as new-fallen snow…

Deep Mind white room cinema effect,
preceding the ever after this…

you be come this far, alone.
You be edging up on after all's

been said and done, what you did's
been said to have done nothing,

nothing, thus
nothing done wrong,
nothing done to no effect.

It's a terrible thing,
I know a beautiful young woman who harms herself with a razor.

Butter and toast.
It's a terrible thing.

We kiss a lot as she bleeds.
And yes, oh yes,
It's a terrible thing.

Blood flows down her breast onto the soft curves of her ivory torso
To mix with my sweat and raw kisses.
It's a terrible thing.
The white marble goddess arches towards my mouth
Stone wheels sharpen the blade.
Her lips - red stains.
It's a terrible thing.

Blood in spiderwebbed rivulets fall.
She burns a smile like talons into my skull.
I'm bought and sold in the house of a tortured Venus.
Alley of torment and ecstasy.
Dracula licks her jewel box glitter and drinks her till whiskey blind.
A ******* mad hatter.
It's a terrible thing.

Please stop, I say heavy with longing.
Which drives her on as one wound begets another.
In this laboratory of sanguine obsession.
My voice - musical bones like xylophone tones.
And oh My God.
This filler that cleaves to emptiness.
This finger of the void - black angels.
Her grin upon me like the Ta in ******.
A merchant of desire whom I love darkly.
This ponderous monk black night of red children falling from mother.
To be savored.
I dive into her red.
My mouth wild cherries and rushing fire.
I am dragon's teeth and tongue lapping.
All cleavers and kisses.

She smiles spreading in a bed of red gauze.
We are good people.
And oh yes, my sweet.
It's a terrible thing.

Needled fingered hematologists prepare our dinner. Her name, Mercy, all body candy, tattooed with a snake ****. Her ******* pierced with rose paved sparkles and ******* stabbed with bat shaped studs. Nurses sharpen knives while quack doctors tend to little plastic dolls and blood bathers with crossed femurs in hospital beds where they are cultivated as condiments. Between the umbilicus of limbo, and the theater of cruelty the rational world remains a derelict void. Welcome are hallucinations that abolish reason, that give meaning to blood shot gazing eyes beyond the limits of sanity, where madness cannot be opposed in a world of tug a war monsters and gods. Lyrical voices of demons shoot through Mercy's nerve membranes, while a marching army of squat shadows move like flames in a vacant lot of burning violets. Monsters groan. A snake head eats its own tail in graves of scattered voices and speechless tongues. Arteries pulse vermillion, naked and wanton waiting to be pierced for sanity's release in a lyric of dread's desire. A tidal force lifts a dirigible from hell in a fountain of blood while Jesus has a cheeseburger moonstruck in torn *******. A spreading bride dissolves hoop-armed around a formless shadow hallucinating her beloved killers foot stones kiss. Mercy Kneels on the Dias subserviently. She is sumptuous and a willing betrothal in a gauzy white gown. Happily, headed for death, she disrobes and centers herself on the long knotty table spreading wide smiling, as if a performing dancer, a naked contortionist in a shadow that flickers. Her knees bent to her chest, ******* heaving, her red rose toes pointed, feet arched. She is ready for the final churning and dispatch. Vampires with moonish eyes crouch on all fours like ancient bushman with black wings like hovering capes to eat her with little teasing bites and licks before kissing hisses and insinuating their bifurcated tongues followed by needling punctures that look like spider holes with reddish volcanic mounds and a leaking web of blood rivulets on her pink primrose pudenda "blood on a sugar cube" mouths, feeding mouths, feeding mouths, licking each other's claret tongues mixed with foot kissing adorations and pinkish toes red blooms and  mad mumblings about the grace of Satan while burning black sabbath candles and incense, uncrossing themselves in cosmic Goetic rituals during devotional masturbations and copulations to give thanks and pay homage for fear that their god would take their girl away, their lovely girl food dressed in hemoglobin crystals, their sweet bleeding lover at fangs point, their peaches and cream, robe of blood and starve them.
Vampires are like the rest of us, hunger always wins, hunger for beauty, hunger for love, attention and shelter, hunger for every ******* thing. The vampires wept tears of gratitude licking torn sumptuous flesh like wild cats on the Savana. The pain of their bites excited Mercy, oh it hurt so, while they filled blood goblets of her, weeping and tumbling downwards in her honeymoon crypt like a spooling galaxy as they ate her belly, throat, eyes, and **** with their switchblade kisses. Mercy drugged on ketamine pushed passed the unendurable limits past limitless pain, like a burning witch laughing thinking in fractured clouds, and hot *** heaping ******* at the site of her depraved condition before sinking into an impenetrable dark water labyrinth of death. Her lips glossed black, the color of the grave, her hair dyed red and purple, her thighs and belly trussed in white gauze by ladies in waiting. Her areoles scorched and punctured as incense holders. Vampires coalesce, with fangs and ravaging kisses, biting Mercy like wild hyenas with panicked raw mouths of red saliva diamonds. Mercy gushes blood like a red river banquet, chained and strapped, legs stirrup wide, her feet beautifully arched and just so, glistening for fiendish kisses. In a candlelight ritual she is copulated by both sexes and fed upon. Mercy laughs like a loon screaming as she is lapped up by the wicked gift of ravenous tongues. Half devoured she emerges, a blood perfume delirium. Mercy arches upward and writhes in a blistering frenzy. Her eyes glare like a tempest then go vacant in loop tee loops in and out of focus. Her mouth, a red licorice lipstick smudge, gapes like twisted wire and pierced blood-soaked lips. In a ghastly shriek Mercy's belly oozes while the very last of her falters. Mercy surrenders her remains in a last hideous lament. Her hair looks like matted steel wool, her nostrils wet with mucousy brine. Her eyes bulge from their sockets, while a single smoldering finger in flames still burns as if it is a candle. Mercy tumbles downwards like a spooling galaxy as they eat her belly, throat, eyes, *** **** and nibble on her toes while she lays prone on a worn blood-stained porcelain Dias and spreads wide exposing whats left of her innocent bottom and smiling like a bewitched demon.

You can't talk about love without talking about its absence, deceit, desire and perversions.
Despite Justines intention to live a virtuous and moral life
she repeatedly encounters debauched and depraved individuals who demean her in every sense of the word.

Justine is brutally and incessantly violated, yet always eager and docile with big ******* eyes like portals of magic.
Using lunar rituals and oneiric transmissions she masturbates incessantly in alley doorways while imagining being backdoored in a bathtub of oiled men - and time will not take that away.

A queen of pinups and a scape goat without a safe word
She is held hostage by desire interlocking her with a **** vampire
living in a stone-cold chamber who texted pitiful Instagram posts about beautiful scarification, the pleasures of narcissism and beauty that left her always feeling like her own undertaker.

How does it work to protect yourself from yourself in this bitter city of the mind where silver flies, pocked faces and little worthless pennies in knotted dreams hum into the cells of your mottled brain?

Aside from my love of women who own their sexuality and being the spawn of the solar phallus dragon and ***** **** of fire, you know mom and dad, let's face it a lot of people are pent up about ***, so anything illuminating on the subject and its various forms, perspectives, sensual aspects and subculture is nothing but a good thing unless of course you are a die-hard *****.

Broadly speaking marrieds and long-term couples grow bored with each other, and singles very often go without *** or even being touched for extended periods of time. In both cases it ***** and not in a good way. Many singles remain fixated on the idea of finding that special person to alleviate their sense of loneliness and many if not most marrieds remain starved for a bit of novelty and are understandably afraid to transgress for fear of the jealousy and pain of betrayal with the loneliness and insecurity it often brings. Of course, there are some who work hard to disown their sexuality all together as a solution.  I see this as a kind ****** & emotional suicide, a moral masochism if religiously motivated and crime against the self.  There is in fact very few of us who manage to find a way to have it all and have it that way most or all of the time. In other words, the entirety of our society has a baked in structure that creates a sense of pervasive despair about ****** desire, not to mention the immense suffering that comes with loving and not being loved back.

Speaking of moral masochism, I find it ironic that the clergy who are sworn to celibacy and outwardly kowtow to the most rigid repressive codes of behavior have been and remain appalling in their rampant *******.

Perhaps whats left is to be driven into a labyrinth of hermetically sealed shadows that incubate a kind of sensual theater of transgression and taboo where simply everything goes.
Well, this writer has lived in those shadows like many others and consequently decided to explore those dark corners both in relationships, and those interior grottos of self through mental construct phantasmagorias and the language of poetry to spotlight this web of pathogens built into the very scaffolding of our psyches and culture.
As a poet I dont want to mimic the ruling culture. I want poetry to be like good ***, as in novel or intimate or perverse or underground like a creepy girl with a little blood on her pigtails in a fluttering dress with great legs just asking for it.
Poetry in its frail orbit is often only seen through the lens of genteel romance, social justice, of documentary, of collective resistance, or perhaps the propaganda of some other public iconography, a kind of literary imperialism in its lock step with the prevailing dogma trend lines while *** remains oddly off the radar? How could that be with so many barking and yelping genitalia, talk about repression.
Is the poetic form collapsing like a drooping mouth from too much pretentious baroque gentility in mildewed assure skies and verdant fields? Has Pandora been dethroned, and stripped of her gloomy yet torrid box of troves?
No folks shes under our bed's, in our brains and DNA disturbing us while we try to avoid her primal groans, groans mind you that manifest in the shadows and then erupt into arguments, tears and the rip apart lives.   

The reason I write about *** is I'm in search of a sacred space where language serves the psyche without artifice, and that makes plain the difference between the conservative public conversation and true innerness of the intersectional shadow lands of self towards a better way to live.