150 lines
6.7 KiB
Plaintext
150 lines
6.7 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Earth Goo
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by Lady Carolin
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>>> a cDc publication.......1991 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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______________________________________________________________________________
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I hate it when children say to me, "I wish YOU were my mommy."
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Or, "I'm afraid to go home."
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Or, "Don't let my daddy come live with us any more."
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And, "Can I go home with you to your house?"
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I always must explain to them that I'm just their social worker; I can't
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take home ALL the kids I work with, "'Cuz then my house would get soooooo
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crowded!" And then I laugh, try to be cute, try to make things merry because
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I'm disturbed at the way the conversation is going. And sometimes they laugh
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too. But after that the hope leaves their eyes; they stop smiling.
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Soon another will ask me again. "Will you take me home with you?" Lost
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puppies. Trying to make themselves more presentable so they will be wanted.
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Trying to change or control what little of their environment that they can.
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They choose me but it could just as easily be any other social worker, any
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other caring adult.
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I am white and blonde like virtually everyone they see on TV and other
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places where the media thrusts, force-feeds images of what they should look
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like, should want, should be. Gods and goddesses of American culture are
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always white and blonde, tall with blue eyes. Clean and pure, kind and smart.
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Educated. Gentle. This is how the children imagine me to be, although only
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knowing me a short while. The heroes children see on TV are not black like
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their parents. They are not on welfare. They are not dirty, they do not lack
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the money to wash clothes at the laundromat, to buy soap, to buy shampoo for
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their hair.
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I hate it when children say to me, "I'm afraid to go home."
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Children hate my car. I have had children vomit in my car, scream in my
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car, cry in my car, try to escape from my car by jumping out. They hate my car
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because it is what I use to take them away from their parents. Yet part of
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them still does want desperately to go, to leave home. Once a child banged his
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head repeatedly on the trunk of my car. When I asked him what he was doing he
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said, "I'm banging my head, waiting for God to come out of the wall." Waiting
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for something or someone to save him from the guilt of going with me willingly,
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leaving with me instead of running home, hiding in the closet like some kids
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do.
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Have you ever had a child say to you in all honesty, "My mom pooped in my
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mouth and made me eat it." Or, "My daddy was chasing me through the house with
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a big knife." Or, "I would die if my friends at school knew my dad makes me
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have sex with him." Have you?
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I hate it when they say to me, "Can I come home with you to your house?"
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They have not seen my house but they imagine it to be clean, tidy, free of
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ants and fleas and cockroaches. Cupboards filled with food. Working toilets.
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They assume that their social worker would never let the dishes in her home go
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unwashed, nor the laundry undone, nor would I permit feces of children and
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animals to gather in stinking piles on the floor. And on most counts they are
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right.
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I hate it when they say to me, "I wish you were my REAL mom."
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I do not, can not love them as their parents do: I love them as children
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and as clients but not as MY children. Their parents love them more than I
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ever could, ever. Most children want to stay with their parents even despite
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abuse, neglect, molestation, beatings. Torture worse than any visited on POWs
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or criminals. They still want to stay with their parents. Usually.
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The children trust me and feel comfortable with me because in the course
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of my brief interactions with them, I have never raised my voice at them, never
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struck them, never threatened them, never burned them. Never touched them, not
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even a hug, which can be too threatening to an abused child.
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I have seen children bleeding, children with blackened burns, children
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thin and shaky from lack of food. Children with gonorrhea they caught from
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their father. Infants who shiver and pull away from you when you touch them,
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from the crystal their mother took while pregnant with them. Babies with
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broken arms, black eyes.
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I hate it.
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It makes me want to scream and
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Set the world on fire, then
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Turn it upside down,
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Hold it in the palm of my hand.
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Squeeze 'til it all crumples.
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Jelly like a crushed egg, an eyeball.
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Liquid flesh.
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A little bit of crunch here and there,
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Like an eggshell,
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>From the mountains.
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Squished planet, slimy,
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Dripping down,
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Down,
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Down,
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Onto the universe.
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Earth ooze,
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Gooey and sticky on all of the stars.
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I hate this earth for what it
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Does to us, for what it
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Makes us do.
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For what we choose to do;
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The choices we make for
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Our children.
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I squeeze harder,
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Harder.
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Destroying the earth,
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Putting us out of its misery.
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_ _ ____________________________________________________________________
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/((___))\|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|Kingdom of Shit.......806/794-1842|
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[ x x ] |NIHILISM.............517/546-0585|The Polka AE{PW:KILL} 806/794-4362|
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\ / |Ripco................312/528-5020|Tequila Willy's GSC...209/526-3194|
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(' ') |The Works............617/861-8976|Blitzkrieg............502/499-8933|
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(U) |====================================================================|
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.ooM |Copr. 1991 cDc communications by Lady Carolin 10/31/91-#195|
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\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away. FIVE YEARS of cDc|
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