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Tuesday, 13 January 2015 18:44

In The Shadow of Shame Parts 1 & 2

“In the Shadow of Shame Parts 1 & 2”


Mark Blickley




Before the Dawn of Agriculture men like ME were slapped into the shadow of sexual shame but now who needs muscles or chiseled chins, great size or strength, a lover’s passion or a manly countenance because for ten thousand

years now I can persecute any female for infidelity towards ME and hold paternity privilege over MY biological children because we exceptional farmers invented marriage to destroy human sexuality by enslaving women

with MY property for sex so I no longer need to share or compete or settle for alpha males’ sloppy seconds within foraging groups that are forced to share what they carry with them instead of our enforced legal couplings that takes the innocent, primal pleasure and mystery out of sex by connecting

shtooping to birth thanks to dirt MY dirt MY very own thousand acres of

seeded soil littered with pens full of MY trapped sheep, cattle, goats and pigs which means I can pork any female I fancy and destroy any man who thwarts MY desire as simply as the bulls I castrate into submission to easily herd into MY slaughterhouses that feed all the inferior people no longer

dependent on their hunting and gathering skills but on ME to stay alive so not only am I not considered a sociopath by hoarding food but am praised at           

harvest time like a goddamned hero because I have legally claimed and legally raped those precious few life giving inches of topsoil with

rotating crops and extended grasslands that exhausts and shrinks the earth, MY earth MY reign of forcing agricultural workers to bend over in the fields, stupidly exposing hairless backs to sun poisoning instead of their protective hunters’ heads of hair harvesting MY food that shrinks the testicles of everyone who is forced to feed on the cheap calories of MY industrialized plants and animals that lowers fertility, but who needs big balls anymore

when you don’t have to kill larger animals in order to survive or attract females with your superior physical attributes proving I am the social parasite Sultan of Swat who grows fat on the food I’ve seized by stealing

Paleo land in the name of government protected ownership!





I refuse to be slapped into a shadow of sexual shame by the Dawn of Agriculture! They raped our topsoil’s life-giving and venerated throbbing inches of dirt by pulling up erect trees by their thick stumps that sprout expanding and exploring roots whom firmly holds our moist fertility secure and safe while filling us with excited expectations of a daily mystery that is

not supposed to include being ploughed and carved into, seeded from just one lousy crop until our sacred dirt becomes dry and dusty for I am juicy dessert not an arid desert smelling of charcoal smoke and the dried dung of domesticated animals, where the stinking glow of kerosene lanterns show off local vendors’ rotting fruit in brown one-story buildings down the dried mud thoroughfare where small piles of wilted oranges are arranged like

pyramids of precious gems and lanterns put out thin beams of shaky light so walking down the street into darkness you hear a clip-clopping echo and see

a flickering pin prick of light and jump out of the way of a donkey cart carrying carcasses of barnyard chickens headed right at you with the driver

sitting on top unable to see you in the pitch black air though you might smell donkey and driver if the dung-laced breeze attacks your nose while you quiver with a new-found knowledge of time by squatting to pour the dusty dirt of the defiled domesticated earth from one hand to the other and breathe in the remnants of the old ways through worn slats of the oldest door in the world hanging in entrance of a mud compound where bakers hook their disgusting flat dough pieces the size of small pillows with a black rod onto the roof of a beehive shaped oven with a flick of their fat bakers’ wrists as a parade of property owners sniffing money and not the wind with hollow cheeks, throwing out pieces of conversation that hawk their wares into the air, stepping past dried creek beds with cratered walls of spent topsoil on either side of you the DO. chaos of crusty earth, as if some mad god of Babe Ruthian proportions trowelled along their rims in ecstatic abandon, surrounding you in a protective snake shaped womb of sandy soil as you listen to the high wailing voices of a Paleo song of despair from the tendrils of a wind that slithers among dunes carved from alleys of depleted soil turned clay as melody and lyric complete with a woman’s mating ritual of belly jiggling, pelvic thrusts vibrating and stretching in filthy angelic writhing under a mud thatched farm roof unleashing a gale of unrequited erotic energy as ancient drums carry her through different symphonies of movement as each sway of her hips laments her forced monogamy to a non-alpha male property owner who causes her skin to split like a serpent’s egg to reveal the tinkle of a goat’s bell ringing inside of her demanding she create more farm hands to till his perverse, flabby soil, that turns all women into breeding beasts of burden!



Mark Blickley

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C. 2014

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