“Ah, they’re all the same –
men, I mean.”
Postcards from Hamburg, Circa 1912
It brings down kingdoms, careers: entire religions of do’s and don’ts, to poke or not to poke, and when and where; multitudes of women shrouded because the apparatus must not be tempted, aroused, swelled…a thing of power, control, yet not controlled willingly, must be wrenched torturously into submission and if not, blame a woman. Mistaken, lost, tortured beyond belief in its amplification, gritty insistence out of proportion to consequence, profundity. Needed, we are human after all, such a little thing, the instrument of creation, and does God have one and if so where does he poke it and if not then God is a woman, clearly. But I know better that God is none of the above. and seventy-two virgins, obtained from where…vast numbers of innocent babes, snatched from life, unaware of an awful future to satisfy the drunken martyrdom of a poor deluded wretch: a sad goal, and what happens to those seventy-two girls once the taking is complete, they fade away, return, surely not again, and then heaven is over, a study and a mission of Where. To. Poke. It. Next.