The filth of a dirty man..

He liked to think he was a streak of consciousness made good. He walked as if, shoulders rolling as he parted waves- a heavy strutt of mischief. I saw the dark, the eyes had it, they grazed as they devoured, hovering up babes; each one a virgin vessel. He was always borrowing-  hearts, souls, little things at first; always hungry, stealing with permission the unsaids of the unseen good. A bloated warrior hustling for cream. The mild whites, the red tops and the milky hues; blondes, darks, golds, they all bled upon him; unwillingly and unknowingly of course; virgin fodder hoisted on his bloated cenotaph. Memorandum for the dead.  I saw this, avoided it at first, the dark around the edges,  as it strode in and forced  it's way through the kitchen; carrying off left overs without asking; bits of women  with their the little pink  hearts in jars. They all sat upon his pantry shelf, this buccaneer-pirate-black, who sailed a ship of ghouls; this master  boy-child captain, that broke through and drained all that was good.  I see him now still sailing, a challenge on an icy sea; breaking new ice, darkening new suns, stealing new territories.  MB


Wild Woman teaches women when not to act “nice” about protecting their soulful lives. The wildish nature knows that being “sweet” in these instances only makes the predator smile.  

When the soulful life is being threatened, it is not only acceptable to draw the line and mean it, it is required. When a woman does this, her life cannot be interfered with for long, for she knows immediately what is wrong and can push the predator back where it belongs. She is no longer naive.