You enjoy the erotic tension of your own vulnerability. Absolved of all of your actions by your subservient posture, by your obedience, you are free. Or you imagine so. You are liberated from culpability by your degradation. If the police should come, these bruises, these serpentine cords, the stains on the carpet will all record your trauma. You have chosen shame over blame. It is difficult to say if this was a good choice.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
Showing posts with label blame. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blame. Show all posts
16 December 2010
05 September 2010
Enough Blame
How ineffective God must be
that he would have created me.
that he would have created me.
This thought thaws everything,
turns heads downward,
the breaking ice, the sidewalk
rising, falling, repeatedly cracking
the bones of your beloved
mother's (world) weary spine.
She serves you
her delicious ribs,
always the martyr, made
of guilt and sacrifice.
Nevertheless,
you go on, drawing breaths,
exhaling guns. Gun metal
tastes like death; the bullets
are loaded with fun.
Because its Saturday
something is going to happen.
My flaws are raw,
boiling with infection.
There is a fever
that accompanies living,
that keeps death
amused.
Under their robes, the judges
wear nothing
(but their pride and their shame);
and I know all their names
by heart.
Human, all too human
you are in the dock
waiting; but your ship has sailed.
09 June 2010
Because she lived sloppily, it was difficult to forgive her. A correlation was quickly drawn that justified the self-succoring need to blame. People would talk about it endlessly, about the precautions they had taken to prevent such a fate for themselves--they were so very wise--or how they were protected due to some private, secret, back-scratching relationship with the deity. The people would talk. Commonly, the rumors gained momentum around ideas of karmic retribution: "She, of anyone, deserved her fate." There were the nods, the exasperated whispers. There was the certainty that horrors were the meted punishment in a universe that dotted every i. There was the faith that hell, both personal and universal, was a sentence fitting the corrupt interior. And in her case, this was easily surmised from the chaos outside.
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