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For a minute or more, I was dead as you,

as you were technically dead

before the end was absolute—

before your brain conceded.

For a minute or more, my world was edged in blossoming dark,

engrossing, on the cusp of consent.

Blackbirds congregated, chattered ‘round my head, and

they called dibs on my vital organs—

heart, liver, kidneys, and lungs.

One expressed explicit interest in

my spleen—

keen student of human anatomy,

morbid corvid.

Then a cardinal came with your breath on its wings,

and I breathed.

I just breathed.

I breathe still…

 

© Kindra M. Austin

image: Houston Audubon

 

 

 

I listen to Radiohead

when I contemplate killing you—

I want to smash your glass and

get at the inside of your meaning.

Shells tell different truths—

look at me.

See,

I’m right and tight

with my plastic teeth,

and painted eyes that never blink.

We mislead, you and me.

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© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Gifer)

 

 

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I’m head over heels,

tied up and strangled

by my entrails—

my insides

excised—

you keep a terrific tongue

unleashed between liar’s teeth

stained with victory and breast milk.

Man-child, I’ve never known a coward

quite like you. Your truth is treachery;

and it fucking guts me.

I’m head over heels

in disgust with you.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Pinterest)

23

The day was grey-blue, echo of your eyes;

sky filled up with promise of rain,

and we waited for beloved petrichor.

Lemon yellow and speckled black,

a noble friend

clasped

your flaxen strands and flexed its wings.

What dreams did she bring, my darling?

Do you know how often

I dream of the daylight that dances

upon your face?

Formed inside my body, you are

living art,

gusting love from

honest lungs—

you speak your truths.

Honor your heart always, baby girl,

and you’ll always be rewarded with

self-respect.

Live kindly,

and the butterflies

will flock to you,

forever.

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Dust with hearts pumping, and

lungs screaming

love and hate and sex and violence.

Dust with stomachs aching—

too much

designer caramel latte, and blood in the streets.

Dust with mouths vomiting rhetoric.

Dust with ears hearing

but never listening.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: The Babylon Bee)

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Dante’s Inferno

Matthew 7:2 (King James)

For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged:

and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.


I’m not religious, and I don’t fear a god, but I feel like I’ve got a pretty good handle on how people should treat one another.

But I could be wrong. There could be a special level of Hell waiting for me. Because I do judge.

I judge because I have personal high standards–standards so high that I have no tolerance for abuse of any sort.

I judge because I have no tolerance for those who try to get ahead by propagating lies, and target the defenseless.

I don’t give a fuck about creed, color, or race. What I care about is the individual quality of the human spirit.

Period.

 

(image: Pinterest)

 

I can’t believe it’s taken this long to collab with Christine. Her writing is Pristine. ❤

Whisper and the Roar

SONY DSC SONY DSC

I am Organism

Female

Defense Mechanism

Natural

Feminism is my Realism

Because #MeToo, Motherfuckers

I’ve been abused

Been paid less cash

Called a Radical Cunt a

Bleeding Heart Liberal and

Put in my place—

Not my place, but theirs

I’ve been judged by the size of my body and clothes I wear

Been held back by (un)intelligent men and even stupider women

Who mock my Heart and Common Sense—

Slammed by Pseudo-Brain influenced by Meme Culture

I am Organism polluting the Cesspool

Feminism is my Realism

(Kindra M. Austin)

I am Organism

Female

Defense Mechanism

Instinctive

Feminism is my Realism

Because if I had been paid my 80 cents on the dollar

For every time I have been called

Bitch

Dyke

Ball breaker

Since I was 12 years old

I’d be in the damn 1%

Told my whole life

That I am

Too angry

Too emotional

Too loud

View original post 37 more words

Marcia was sixteen years old when she was disfellowshipped—the resultant of a rape accusation. The Kingdom Hall doesn’t fuck around, you see. The Brother in question was a husband and father; Marcia was the babysitter. Even though her father wanted to notify the police, and press legal charges against the sick fuck who’d violated his little girl, Marcia’s mother insisted that the situation be left solely in the self-serving hands of the Elders. The Elders, after hearing the douche bag’s bullshit, decided that Marcia would be excommunicated from the Kingdom Hall. Jehovah does not love girls who allow themselves to be raped. Apparently.

Marcia is my late mother.

So all of you fuck-sticks who keep contacting me regarding my irreverence can choke on this mother fucking tid-bit. Open your throat and take it all.

I am not a heathen. I am not a bad person. Just because I don’t accept every aspect of Christianity does not mean I’m the devil’s spawn. In fact, if you’d take the time to read my blog, you’d discover that I am deeply loving, and even though I don’t agree with every facet of religion, I am respectful of those who are religious. Except for those who are Jehovah’s Witnesses.

 

I lost my religion the day I was born to a beautiful young woman abused by her mother’s god. At the age of sixteen this innocent was raped by a Brother—a married man with children. The Elders voted to excommunicate the girl—my mom. So there should be no wonder why I abhor Jehovah’s Witnesses. Even though my mother had been disfellowshipped, this religious faction dictated my adolescent life. My mother, although she was unwelcome in the Kingdom Hall, and despised the religion, she still feared the wrath of Jehovah. So, she allowed her parents to take me to bible studies, and assemblies in Pontiac. My dad didn’t like it, but he followed my mother’s lead. Why? I don’t fucking know.

I remember feeling a great sigh of relief when I told my mom and dad that I no longer wanted to have anything to do with Jehovah. My parents promised me that I would never have to step foot inside a Kingdom Hall ever again. I’m nearly 39, and every time I drive past a Kingdom Hall, my heart sinks into my belly. I don’t like to generalize groups of people. Anyone who knows me knows that I am an open-minded person—I typically dislike labeling as a whole. But Jehovah’s Witnesses hold a special place in my heart.

Half of the JW kids my mother grew up with have committed suicide. I remember when my mother was living in Texas, she’d call me up and tell me about so and so hanging themselves, or swallowing the barrel of a gun. It freaked mom out, because these people were her age, and their actions gave her ideas of escape. My mother has slit her wrists and overdosed more times than I care to count. And I know the root of her problem is her own mother, and that fucking religion.

It’s that fucking religion that guided my grandmother in raising her children. My mother isn’t the only one permanently fucked up—my uncles are a mess. At least my Uncle Kenny is a functioning member of society. He’s more than that, really. My Uncle Kenny is my favorite man, besides my dad, and my husband. Uncle Kenny is soft spoken and kind—but he hurts, and he says, “Up yours!” to the Kingdom Hall. Aunt Denise always supported him. Now she’s gone…and I worry about him. My Uncle Kenny and Aunt Denise were always a united force—Denise being the foundation.

Uncle Kenny came over the other night. It was a great surprise to me, him knocking on our door at 8:30. Before he left at 2 a.m. he said, “You’re Aunt Denise was fierce. She was a warrior.”

And I thought about Blood into Ink. All of us at Blood into Ink are warriors. I wish my fellow writers could have known my aunt. She had to overcome much. And she was always proud of me in life; I know she is proud of me now—what I stand for.

Aunt Denise wasn’t the sort who shoved religion down throats. She believed what she believed, and respected whatever the fuck anyone else believed. Unless they were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Because like me, she’d witnessed the destructive properties of that cult. After my mother had been raped, and disfellowshipped, Aunt Denise spoke to her parents, and they allowed my mother to move in with them. My grandparents are pieces of shit, as far as I am concerned—the rape was never reported to the police.

My mother and my Aunt Denise had been best friends since high school. When Aunt Denise passed, I thought my mother would totally break. But, she and her brother, Kenny, have one another, and they are both managing, together.

When Uncle Kenny was at my house the other night, I finally had the chance to tell him, one on one, that I missed Aunt Denise. I at last told him my final words to Aunt Denise before she was gone. And he cried. He’s never cried in front of me. He said, “Aunt Denise was with you when you were talking to her. She’s always been proud of you.”

Next month, just before Thanksgiving, and Uncle Kenny’s birthday, is Aunt Denise’s death day.

I don’t pray to a god for the well-being of her soul. She is a part of the Universe now, and she visits me in my dreams frequently. I know Aunt Denise is existing in a state of peace, and she reaches out to show me she’s okay.

Don’t tell that to a Jehovah’s Witness, because they’ll say I’m league with Satan. According to Jehovah’s Witnesses, a person who dies does not release a soul; they are simply dead, buried in the fucking dirt, and if they are a Witness, they will be resurrected like Jesus was, to live on a paradise earth after Armageddon has passed. Think of it! If you’ve ever found a JW pamphlet at your door, you’ll know what I’m talking about—people living amongst tigers and elephants and shit. Fucking lambs sleeping with lions on your front lawn. Asians and Latinos smiling like morons alongside the whites and blacks, they may as well be unicorns. The Watchtower and Awake! always depict Asians and Latinos chilling with wild animals. For real, how many Chinese Jehovah’s Witnesses do you know?

Propaganda, folks! That’s what this fucking cult comes calling with when they knock on your door on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve/ Christmas isn’t even holy to Jehovah’s Witnesses.

You know why JWs don’t celebrate the birth of Christ? Because their bible doesn’t tell them to.

JWs don’t celebrate anything their bible doesn’t explicitly say to celebrate. So, they don’t celebrate Christmas. They don’t celebrate their own birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, ANY holiday. They do not observe Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, or even Labor Day. Any calendar holiday is off limits. JW children don’t recite the Pledge of Allegiance because JWs believe that only Jehovah deserves allegiance; a JW does not willingly serve in the military.

My grandpa (my mother’s dad) was in the ARMY. He married my grandmother. I remember seeing his ARMY photo when I was young. I wonder, after he converted to Grandma’s religion (because she was a pushy bitch), if he was ashamed of his service. I’d like to think he wasn’t ashamed, though I do recall that he spoke against the military. Jehovah’s Witnesses are not permitted to enlist in any faction of the military, as pledging allegiance to anything other than Jehovah is blatant defiance.

It’s late, and I’m babbling. I’ve lost sight of what this entry is supposed to be. I’m listening to The Cranberries. Each song means something different to me—

I guess what I mean to say, in the long winded way, is that I don’t like Jehovah’s Witnesses. For personal reasons. And probably for fundamental reasons, too.

P.S. Yes, I’ve had a few drinks. It’s Sunday Funday.

R-rating

Dear Virgins,

Allow me to extend my genuine gratitude; I’m honored you have chosen to visit my blog. I hope your time does not prove wasted here, as building human connections through the written word is paramount to me. I’ve made many friends via WordPress. I’ve also offended a metric fuck-ton of people; these folks ran away from me full on Kevin McCallister style. I don’t fret when I lose subscribers.

I’m not for everyone, and I respect that I disrespect some readers/writers with my foul mouth. I know what it’s like to come across a blog so fucking filthy, I’ve wanted to bathe in bleach. Even I have standards, and standards are all relative. What should be understood is that there is a real difference between me using words like fuck; twat waffle; thunder cunt; pork sword; douche canoe; and those who glorify sex violence; domestic violence; homophobic violence; religious violence; child pornography; animal abuse; genocide.

But, yes, I do stand by all of you who don’t like the coarse words I utilize in my writing. What I do take issue with are the reprimands I receive for my goddamned blog posts. You have the right to rub my nose in a piss puddle, because my blog is public. But are those reprimands necessary? I’m a grown ass woman, so I think not. Before the argument is raised that my bad words are unnecessary, I say, the hell-damn-fart they’re not. I write my truths. And my truths are sometimes very sweary; I make no apologies for the butt hurt. I have a warning label on my home page, for fuck’s sake.

So, to all of you kind enough to stop by my blog for the first time, please, proceed with caution if you are easily offended by a sailor’s tongue. And understand that I don’t offend people because it is my goal. My only goal is to be true.

I wish you all peace.

Yours,

Kindra M. Austin