Viva la Rebellion
“Look, honey,” she said, very firm, very deliberate, “when I don’t want to be kissed, I don’t get myself kissed. I’m a big girl now; I can take care of myself.” The guy grinned. “You know,” he said with a laugh, “I’m awfully glad to hear you can take care of yourself with me. Because I’ve been out with a lot of girls who sure as hell couldn’t.”
Again, I cannot help muse upon the imprisonment of the individual in the cell of her own limitations. She is like a wind that hath no fury, a style with no grace. Always yearning for more than what she allows herself to comprehend.
“There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.” And your tears turn to anger, and your anger turns to hate. And you become so bitter, the salt in your veins can’t mask the scowl on your face.
“The wind has blown a warm yellow moon up over the sea…” A big bulbous moon like the bulbous head of a bulbous man pompously taking inventory of the shortcomings of humanity. Patrolling the night, a lighthouse in the sky. A dear companion, always on time, helpful, reliable, admired by all. “What does he have that I don’t?” The Earth Mother laments in quenchless sorrow.
Look at all the birds
Every shape, color, size
Scratching at the surface
Pecking at the lies
Adorning the walls with excrement
Every day is a holiday
Every day is the same old story
The plot thickens
But none will sway
Where have all the flowers gone?
Where are all the vines?
Where are all the pretty birds?
Where are all the signs?
