Poem Number 19163

perfusions

Some guy in this forum was commenting on how it is nice to give 'personal' gifts instead of manufactured products. You know- like all the times you heard growing up that "it is the 'thought' that counts". I saw the guy, and took him down, for all the kids. Here, my piece:

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Yes. 'Build the toy' for the kids. Watch distantly as they spit on your labor and demand instead the objects that will help them identify with their group. What are you going to do? Search for the 'special' child? Look for the one that actually appreciates your grown up mentality and your cultured viewpoint?

You kill your children and then accelerate procreational habit. You fuck women all over the place and start having numerous children, and keep killing them, waiting nine fucking months for new children to be born, only to kill them when you find out they are not 'indigo' children. You start research on shortening pregnancies. At the same time, you also build a 'culture' promoting the benefits of shortened pregnancies, because you find that women take their fucking pregnancies very personally and must be socially goaded in order to perform well - otherwise you'd probably just end up with bloody inert fetuses instead of the indigo child.

Cos some obsessive mother one time claimed her child was 'very special' and some hack supported her claim. I looked the hack in the eye, and it just shied away perfusing a scent of paisley. Later, I heard, she was perpetrating myths about me being some sort of demon, or devil.

I remember the time when I broke my yo-yo, that I had saved up specially for with my petty allowance (provided by my father) - you know, foregoing sweets and food at the canteen in school - it was just split in two. Shit.

Later in the week I came back to the broken yo-yo, and found it burned! I went to my mother. "I only fucking split the yo-yo, mother," I said, minus fucking, "why is it now burned?"

Please note that I was not a spoiled brat. As I mentioned, the yo-yo was purchased through hard work and sweat from a petty allowance, and I had to go through a lot of shit to get it. A lot of psychological shit. Like being unable to buy a girl a plastic ring kind of shit, and watching mutely as another boy took her for the summer. But hell, I got the yo-yo.

My mother gulped a little, I noticed. "Your father fixed it," she said.

All hell broke loose. The wrath of the child, can you imagine? I took my (burned) yo-yo and then stood theatrically in front of my mother. She started to weep. His 'culture' had apparently never prepared her for this. I let the yo-yo fall down. "Is this what you call 'fixed'?" I demanded.

"He joined it back together," she said. "It's fixed. You can walk the dog," she tried.

I was so angry. My god, I was so angry. "It's not fixed," I informed her. "Look, it's wobbling on that string. And burned."

My poor little father. Using logic, and seeing that his spawn's yo-yo (that had been purchased through blood and tears) was split in half, had used his might and wisdom to fix it with fire. Melting the plastic to be rejoined!

I don't know what he was trying to communicate to me by doing that, but I know that I performed well as true ingrate. If he was somehow trying to 'communicate' with me (being such a distant father), what the hell? You burn my possessions and try to say it's fixed?

Later in my developmental period, I calculated that maybe he was trying to impart some hidden wisdom. Maybe he was trying to get me 'out of my rut' and show me how even broken things can be forged back to fixed state. This is when my minute experiments with ants and candles started, at age 8.

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