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VIRGINS WITH SWORDS
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In this land of ours
the thearte of the absurd
the thearte of cruelty
dwelling in the land of this insane farce
the land plagued with man's fantastic afflictions
the thearte of the bloody red, tooth and nail.
In this land of yours
the thearte of the making loud noises
the threarte of the grimacing face
dwelling in the land of your perpetual jarring notes
the land plagued with audible human discharge,
the thearte of the questionable bleeding offenders.
In this land of hers
the thearte of the grunting and squealing passion
the thearte of her pro bono publico
dwelling in the land of her sad torn sagging flesh
the land plagued with her harsh like, shrieking
the thearte of her professional voyeurism.
In this land of mine
the thearte of human mock misery
the thearte of the born so utterly blind
dwelling in the land of the so impaired dying blind
the land plagued with the down trodden asinine herd,
the thearte of I'm in your face.
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| Ruth-Weller-Button, early 80's |
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