What does man know of rape?
Being the rapist?
And to what degree is raping of others the rape of the rapist's soul?
Is it by raping that man seeks to better himself?
Could it be that raping is a way of un-raping?
How many questions of cruelty does it take to make a noble person seem like an evil one?
And what questions can we ask of that evil?
Can we ask if it's golden teeth were made to make lies shine like suns?
To make truths ugly as the sins which begot them?
Why do we hate hatefulness, and why do we say this hate is good?
In hating hate, and loving that hatefulness, do we make ourselves concubines of evil?
Do we open the pussyholes of our goddesses and stiffen the cocks of our gods and force them into each other?
Is this rape by proxy?
When we cry no! Is there a quiet, still spirit which cries yes?
What morality can we ascribe to accidents?
Why do I hate myself for asking?
Why does my small, still voice scream at me like the banshee in the house of dead children and crumpled leaves?
Crumpled leaves in crumpled hands -- is this not the prerogative of children in the autumn?
When the autumn wind blows, is it not with a damnable warmth that steals life from the Earth for winter?
And when the tears of seasons fall and crust the mangled tree limbs of a deserted planet, are they not tears of Persophone, one raped by love?
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