As law might be ineffable, for they who have it on their side, or benefit from others silence or ignorance, it is important to remember that some things might be spoken, and others unspoken. Who silences whom will be of note, to they who measure power and by what yard stick they so do. If mere material wealth were the demarcation of esteem or relevance, and humans were by nature prone to measure and quantify things, our many mathematics might find a way to our survival, which might perpetuate life, if not enjoyment thereof. The many silent ways our material bodies quantify safety and spatial relations situates us within the scope of silent computing things. When the origin of of our soul, or unique sense of selfness gives rise to utterance, or calligraphies, which might demarcate various things for others, why and how does this phonetical transmission occur and by what standard is it judged?
Is it possible for a “woman” to have ideas? Is not everything she might think or say colored by others perceptions and opinions of her gender?
As many a religion expresses the female, as that which is to be controlled, silenced, or handled, how is it possible that any human view a woman’s mind, or intellect as a genderless neutral of intellectual expression? As this hypothetical “she” might arrive at a venue, where her words might be heard, it might seem a diversion from a more dominant discourse. And should she arrive there, with words, presuming reception, if not comprehension, she will have survived up until that point of time in the present tense. Previous to her arrival at that forum, mathematical calculations of spatial relations might have occurred telling her, this street feels safer, take a taxi now, it is not safe.
such that her daily reality, in a commonly conceived peaceful civilization, is actually a terrifying realm, where physics must be apportioned constantly, to protect the physical entity of her body from assault, such that the life of the mind might prevail. so should she arrive, intactly, and commence to speak, or express ideas, her physical triumph of the will towards survival is evident in the completeness of her body, which has weathered assault, or threats of numerous kind. Beyond the more obvious threats come the more subtle, which reside in the propagandas of medias and commerce, and convey such lethality, that it is a wonder consumerism has not killed her. as with the fatalities in plastic surgery or anorexia or drug addiction, the actual event of her life, is itself a miracle. so when or if she speaks, her words are harrowed words harrowed by countless barbarities, which sought to extinguish her.
In a moment of total myopia, sponsored by destiny, the cultural conveniences of mechanized subsistence proclaim the beauties of human engineering and plasticity. Assaulted by the color red, at the cafe outside, afraid to go to class, afraid for the theatre spectacle of being hated or reviled, condescended to, or cursed at, i took comfort in orwellian bland coffee, decrying the egregious red. removed of my anxiety by the removal of the precision of my lenses, blindly as tireseas, a tired song comes to mind, about the present tense, this tense, this tense, is like a weapon, of self defense. but there is no weapon in the torture compound, bound and gagged, electrocuted, starved, injected. there is no present tense in the torture corridor. the present tense was in the past, the moment of action, one seized and would not forget, knowing clearly as the sun, the annihilation invariably waiting, at the next corner.
as my body is smacked by the auto, every word that issued from my mind, every expression, every cold empty word on the page sits there for you to absorb. that your way of trying might have at me to say, words must not issue in this way or that, as i am my own art piece, defiant of your prophetic dismissal, so stuck on enforcing the past.
what you must recall is blessed are the bringers of hope. as you crush the spirit of they that give life to optimism, might you then realize your crimes, are high crimes in the digital obscurity. you might sit with your power of permissable expression to express your survival, your finitude, as a body in space, complete in your buddha nature, content to force old modes of power and crushing upon new growth, the young have new ways, new triumphs. as the pirate bay faced censure by they who know not even what it is they condemn, you condemn our economies of honesty and sharing, you condemn our transparency, seeking we revert to retrogressive gag orders and submissions that no longer apply.
so when you say red, or when did he, when then might we question the abominable male canon, and why is is not under dispute and why this city, minimetropolis i must walk around guarded by virtual burkas, protecting my ears.
how your sexism is sonorous to yourseves might lie deeply in autoeros, from which you spew your self congratulation upon eachother, and smother dissent. as dissent has you on the block, fooled, tarred. the digital age has digital warriors of the fair and the just. what was written to justify every excess of colonialism will sit as digital grafitti in the bombed out wreckage you have left us for a world, you generations, such that we will be historians of your hatred not purveyors of your propaganda. so get it off me. the thick crepuscular rubbish of your culture and its self-justification.you have failed my frequency test such that you have not frequently respected me enough to allow me to feel i can freely move within the spatial realm in your presence. as safely i have acquired survival up until this point, the animal nature of protection sends me at once, underground, as a rabbit, hiding lest i be cursed.
Is it possible for a “woman” to have ideas? Is not everything she might think or say colored by others perceptions and opinions of her gender?
As many a religion expresses the female, as that which is to be controlled, silenced, or handled, how is it possible that any human view a woman’s mind, or intellect as a genderless neutral of intellectual expression? As this hypothetical “she” might arrive at a venue, where her words might be heard, it might seem a diversion from a more dominant discourse. And should she arrive there, with words, presuming reception, if not comprehension, she will have survived up until that point of time in the present tense. Previous to her arrival at that forum, mathematical calculations of spatial relations might have occurred telling her, this street feels safer, take a taxi now, it is not safe.
such that her daily reality, in a commonly conceived peaceful civilization, is actually a terrifying realm, where physics must be apportioned constantly, to protect the physical entity of her body from assault, such that the life of the mind might prevail. so should she arrive, intactly, and commence to speak, or express ideas, her physical triumph of the will towards survival is evident in the completeness of her body, which has weathered assault, or threats of numerous kind. Beyond the more obvious threats come the more subtle, which reside in the propagandas of medias and commerce, and convey such lethality, that it is a wonder consumerism has not killed her. as with the fatalities in plastic surgery or anorexia or drug addiction, the actual event of her life, is itself a miracle. so when or if she speaks, her words are harrowed words harrowed by countless barbarities, which sought to extinguish her.
In a moment of total myopia, sponsored by destiny, the cultural conveniences of mechanized subsistence proclaim the beauties of human engineering and plasticity. Assaulted by the color red, at the cafe outside, afraid to go to class, afraid for the theatre spectacle of being hated or reviled, condescended to, or cursed at, i took comfort in orwellian bland coffee, decrying the egregious red. removed of my anxiety by the removal of the precision of my lenses, blindly as tireseas, a tired song comes to mind, about the present tense, this tense, this tense, is like a weapon, of self defense. but there is no weapon in the torture compound, bound and gagged, electrocuted, starved, injected. there is no present tense in the torture corridor. the present tense was in the past, the moment of action, one seized and would not forget, knowing clearly as the sun, the annihilation invariably waiting, at the next corner.
as my body is smacked by the auto, every word that issued from my mind, every expression, every cold empty word on the page sits there for you to absorb. that your way of trying might have at me to say, words must not issue in this way or that, as i am my own art piece, defiant of your prophetic dismissal, so stuck on enforcing the past.
what you must recall is blessed are the bringers of hope. as you crush the spirit of they that give life to optimism, might you then realize your crimes, are high crimes in the digital obscurity. you might sit with your power of permissable expression to express your survival, your finitude, as a body in space, complete in your buddha nature, content to force old modes of power and crushing upon new growth, the young have new ways, new triumphs. as the pirate bay faced censure by they who know not even what it is they condemn, you condemn our economies of honesty and sharing, you condemn our transparency, seeking we revert to retrogressive gag orders and submissions that no longer apply.
so when you say red, or when did he, when then might we question the abominable male canon, and why is is not under dispute and why this city, minimetropolis i must walk around guarded by virtual burkas, protecting my ears.
how your sexism is sonorous to yourseves might lie deeply in autoeros, from which you spew your self congratulation upon eachother, and smother dissent. as dissent has you on the block, fooled, tarred. the digital age has digital warriors of the fair and the just. what was written to justify every excess of colonialism will sit as digital grafitti in the bombed out wreckage you have left us for a world, you generations, such that we will be historians of your hatred not purveyors of your propaganda. so get it off me. the thick crepuscular rubbish of your culture and its self-justification.you have failed my frequency test such that you have not frequently respected me enough to allow me to feel i can freely move within the spatial realm in your presence. as safely i have acquired survival up until this point, the animal nature of protection sends me at once, underground, as a rabbit, hiding lest i be cursed.
as fie the foul fiend, shakespeare gave words to an etherel spirit, written for friends, each page to delight, in this writing there might be love towards futurity, your understanding, your audience. and so i have felt the curious actualization of my audience, though brief indeed, enough to render me human, briefly, and wherein i am instructed to sit idly by, in the apocalypse and let the maniacal insults fly, steeling myself in the charcoal afternoon, against cinematic horrors, you must understand how unreasonable it is, to treat a college as a prison, and curse at your inmates and defend their abusers and put the money in the bank, what banality, to defend and shock, and deny the humanity of the accuser, to tell them "you have a weak case" to that i might say, you have a weak mind, and heart, to so disbelieve in your own compassion, to disbelieve in me, to imagine i were milktoast enough to fester in these lies and keep mum.
so pass your rubbish wittgenstein off at us under pretense of other agendas, like limiting the discourse, to that which is male, that which is legal, logical, understood unto you, that you might be paid your beggar's salary, and dismiss the poor to rot on streetcorners where your compassion failed to take root.
that a school might say, come out of the cold, human rights are nigh, in futurity, to ask, is your humanity of concern, where will women ever rest, tired by the toil of running from barbarity of many kinds, fearing every waking sleeping moment for the nightmares of PTSD aggravated by the severity of the pompous goats who parade their porn through your mind, lest you be uncertain of your likely demise.
as defender, to say you were not frequently raped enough for it to be really rape, or cursed at enough for it really to be hostile, shows your thread.
as eternal optimism shows in me a hope for your spirit's growing, i hope too you will take these words and take these tears away with you in a styrofoam box like some fried beast, for your comfort.
where total annihilation might have been the goal of my murderers, and silencing that of my silencers, therein you might note how undead she is, as you kick at her corpse with words so foul
BITCHING CUNT WHORE HOOTERS
at a university which defends and promotes the "right" of men to say such things at women's bodies.
don't they make a nice haiku, in tourette's where might our trauma dwell, the traumatological strength of the clinic of madness and civilization, where to be is not to be perceived, as you perceive me a screen, of domesticity, servile aristotelian prey, to be taught, to be silenced, to be told away into silence, where my digital manumissions might haunt you with five pointed pentagrams, before you choke. and if all this tastes like bulimia to you, let it be know the genocidal methods of a hateful culture hold powerful methods of diffusion, with which to break our legs, so might your letters, be just some, of the disheartening things i might perceive, willingly less than fingers at my throat, silencing me to asphyxia, but none the less
profoundly krank
in the ugliness of the sinister failure to command the situation.
this is not fair.
this is hostile.
you should not have to receive legal defenses of they that curse you,
from condescending tongues, content to lull you to silence, to take the boot to the face, and the appropriate suicides to action, where overcoming were thanatos, and a red book, by a red man, who perchance existed as a spirit in a cult which has sprung from his grave, i am not sure.
if silence and absence were your desire, than excellent it was for you to minimize my pain and silence my desire for civil rights and equality in the future, oblivious as you are to your privilege, and the luxurious safeties it has afforded you, pomposities of voice and education, whence bitches might be silent. and so in the convoluted kafkaesque abattoirs before which i might find, a bit of erudition, might my soul be so damaged by disrespect, that i die on the steps before that temple of knowledge, protected for that which is male, and white, and financed with the blood of africa and extraction of female capital from her silenced corpse. and so you might keep the zombied women numb and floating for your convenience, then might you notice too who flees, and who avoids the metallic hate of your dubious architectures, housing infrastructures of lies. such that you might understand where your words and the glue of bookbinding leaves you so long as you defend men who hate women.
mary eng
