Polemic to Racists

This is the story of a football player and a cheerleader. He was a fat pig. She had curly blonde hair like a helmet made of ramen.

He was an abuser.

I remember she would wrap her arms around him and jump into his arms in front of me.

It is a funny thing to be a supernatural being made of ice and fire: to watch two losers think they are the world and to watch a scum I did not like think he rejected me so.

It is an unfunny thing to choose hate over genius: to choose ugliness over beauty: to choose cruelty over sweetness:

But this is the rub: I was a mathematical genius, spoke all languages of the human tongue and some of the animals, the books I read in a week were more than others read in a lifetime, I was a fine artress, an actress, a writer, a photographer, an etc., a whole world and universe of things, and my greatness and fame was no small thing then.

Ah, and I forgot, my voice; my singing voice was the greatest in the world, and my power then was closer to unreality than reality. I could make blackholes appear, bend time, bend space, bring back to life what had died, dreamed of the future, could read minds, spoke to ghosts, and banished d*m*ns.

It is a funny thing to have been made by God as the whole world in one woman; to be made of such stuff as stardusts’ ashes remattered into bone crusher’s Tartarusian darkness.

She thought because that loser was her world he must be mine as well, but him and those other monsters were damned for raping me. It isn’t bizarre to say that sometimes God makes his tests mortal, flesh and blood and genius: half hyena, half banshee. 

Testing my patience and lying like a hyena in wait for justice; Macbeth says unsex me here, but Christ un-martyr me here! Do not leave me a Job!

A test of their racism, a last laugh of God and a last chance before their unmaking. Could they truly see the lowly form, one day to be destroyed and choose the that lowly creeping, curly bowl cut of ramen over the fair Venusian? And indeed they did. 

In my wholeness, I came out of their wrongness still together more than they hoped to see.

Me lower than dirt, as in their eyes,

dead and underneath the earth

so without feeling

glassy and hollow and so blue

like cataracts of water spilling into the flood

But my wretched self, undying, waits on angels’ promises on my problems to attend like funerals of sinners that they will carry all of those damned bastards off to hell.

So a caterwaul smile like a Cheshire Cat’s grin in heat can burn her, the whore, the bitch, the capitalist slut.

Barking dogs in the night rush out in pursuit of the slaver’s sloven sons. They sing their songs and their teeth play the percussion to the biting rhythm of Cerberuffian satyrs bone crunching bites of wit. 

Priapusian perverts and rapists die. Go to hell. Be round up in the hunt of Artemis for burning crosses in her woods.

The footballer and his girlfriend die. Her eyes fall out and that blonde bitch is blind.

He is run down by the mad horses of Hippolytus. They have come all the way from ancient nightmares to lynch him with their reins for his ghoulish, nightly murders of little, black boys.

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth: the further and further out she goes, the further she strays, and the more God looks down on her…that’s a lie because he overlooks her completely. He does play favorites and she is not one of them. I am and she covets me more for all eternity that she is not loved, that curly haired bitch.

She lacks beauty. She is vulgar. She is hated by Aphrodite and she is dragged by the horses soon after, more or less to death, before Saint Michael stabs her and finishes her forever for taking from her HIS fondest girl of the glad smile, for trampling his finest girl into the dust, for trying to grind her down to whatever wretched thing she is or whatever abominations she has birthed or ever will birth.

May she tear and her husband hate her for it. He will because the men she “loves” are all hate and discord—her mirror; 

Her: all Virtue’s decease. Rotten like a plagued tooth’s wobbling in the gummed breath: her graveyard teeth, so rancid and mired with the cheek-eating, leprous scar of chewing tobacco cud. It is like the smell of still air in an ancient cave filled with guano.

There is not a sweet sounding nor smelling word on the breath of a killer. It all smells like bullshit. 

The last bastard to go is them all. They are swept up by the tornado and torrents of water-wind: so strongly the earth hates them, it finds new ways to destroy them. It douses their flames. It blows out their fires. It chills them to the very bones.

No matter where they walk it is winter. The mountains hate them. The valleys hate them. There is no reprieve from the curses of the land. The locust eat their flesh and the bugs fill their eyes and crotch with venom so the stinging never stops.

They drink and it is steam in their lungs and chokes them to suffocation and death.

These are my curses:

May all her botox be botched and all her plastic surgeries disfigure.

May they die with great pain.

May their children not be by their side.

May God separate them as far from one another further than the stars. 

May they know only traffic, even on Sundays.

May they not sleep and spend it all in the pins and needles of numb limbs.

May all those curses and more be the inheritance of all those ghouls that terrorize America.