17 9 / 2014
"We were grabbing a bite of lunch at a small cafe, in a mall, right across from a booth that sold jewelry and where ears could be pierced for a fee. A mother approaches with a little girl of six or seven years old. The little girl is clearly stating that she doesn’t want her ears pierced, that’s she’s afraid of how much it will hurt, that she doesn’t like earrings much in the first place. Her protests, her clear ‘no’ is simply not heard. The mother and two other women, who work the booth, begin chatting and trying to engage the little girl in picking out a pair of earrings. She has to wear a particular kind when the piercing is first done but she could pick out a fun pair for later.
"I don’t want my ears pierced."
"I don’t want any earrings."
The three adults glance at each other conspiratorially and now the pressure really begins. She will look so nice, all the other girls she knows wear earrings, the pain isn’t bad.
She, the child, sees what’s coming and starts crying. As the adults up the volume so does she, she’s crying and emitting a low wail at the same time. “I DON’T WANT MY EARS PIERCED.”
Her mother leans down and speaks to her, quietly but strongly, the only words we could hear were ‘… embarrassing me.’
We heard, then, two small screams, when the ears were pierced.
Little children learn early and often that ‘no doesn’t mean no.’"
17 9 / 2014
This city is made of wolves and gods,
nymphs with hacked off hair and kohled-up eyes,
wide-eyed prophets slurring over a bottle of Jack.
Ares dons leather as he prowls outside the club.
Mottled bruising spills into the half-crescent below
his eye – a bar fight left him bloody, laughing.
Old Lucifer and his host of rebel angels smoke Marlboros
in the alleyway. Abaddon spent the night in a holding cell
last weekend, head bowed and teeth gleaming.
This time, they keep to the shadows. This generation,
these new party monsters slicked with glitter and sweat,
birthed from smoke machines and sticky dancefloors —
well, the prince of darkness knows better than to meddle.
Here, we are the wolves. Divinity had the sense
not to touch us. Instead, we bare our teeth, clutch bottles
like lifelines, soak up the messy beats, hide in the
darkness between the strobe lighting.
In battered neon lights our names are written,"
like stars, but less.
17 9 / 2014
I need feminism; because the bra straps of a twelve year old shouldn’t make a 40 year old married principal with two daughters “uncomfortable”
So am I allowed to walk around adult women who are mothers and grandmothers at work with my cock out or what
in what world is someone’s dick equivalent to a fucking bra strap