A WHIP
A bride
I hold the man's heart in my hands
So he spoke:
Oh, have mercy on me, Mademoiselle, mercy on my cock
Don't kill me. Don't you think a man's humiliation a murder worse than death itself? There are no words I can speak now

My massive cock is under your spell
My manhood is yours, crown yourself
Castrate me, Mademoiselle
Castrate my soul - my body
Castrate my tongue
Mademoiselle, love me, please, please love me
One more whip, Mademoiselle, yes
I want you
[so sorry]
I beg you
To carve me with a knife Mademoiselle
Carve your feelings into me. Let it be a memory
On my skin
A souvenir on my flesh
Burn my flesh Mademoiselle
Slap me
Harder
Harder
Harder
[No, Mademoiselle, please, I’m so sorry
I am not here to
Order -
but
To expect
I'm not here to dream,
but to hope;] yes, Mademoiselle,
you will crush my hopes like you crushed my balls.
I would be so happy if you were to piss on me, Mademoiselle
Maybe stab me first—
Let me bleed
Please hurt me
Pain, a man's medal, a woman's tears
Then piss on me, Mademoiselle
Piss on my reality

KILL ME MADEMOISELLE DE SADE KILL ME

It was so much yet so little for her, all these men begging her like they used to beg God. Mademoiselle de Sade was the Marquis de Sade's sister. His beloved sister, whose work was to be seen beside him. It was her job to clean his shit, to wait while he fingerfucked any asshole he could find; it was her symbolism to be in the dreams of a man who imagined the Marquis de Sade fucking her hard, her vision to be the poster child of incest love

to be insane was a gift to be given to Sade by men

Yet a curse for her
His screams were applauded
Hers repulsed

She watched the Marquis like Narcissus gazed at his reflection for
Ages
Centuries.
And never found the love to love her brother
Like dirt on skin,
She left it all; she cut off her brother's fingers one by one, so he couldn't write. She took his tongue—
and kept it around her neck
She tore it out with bare hands
She said
Dream a little dream of me being bathed by the nymphs
To be the only Sade
now
I am the terrorist of sadism
Zeus of women
Headmistress of eroticism
a martyr of melancholy
...
I was reborn
Touched by goddesses
Lamented by the queers
With the tears of the men I slaughtered
I am a lesbian now
Also a murderer
Writer/model/influencer/musician/artist
A dominatrix, a dominatrix who becomes more powerful with each tear a man cries
I wash with these men's tears now.
I pray to marks left in their burned flesh
It smells like Aesop candles
I make them cum for my site-specific art
I hang them like cows in slaughterhouses
I kill them, make them bleed to write my
Love Poems
I cut their skin; their flesh stands like Richard Serra's sculptures
I collect their screams for my 6-piece audio channel work in a gallery space
One time I was working with this guy who was constantly demanding more
More pain, he said
My wife can slap better than that
Hurt me like this is your last session
Maybe if your brother were alive, he would know how to torture me
To fuck me hard with his sadistic, beautifully long cock
That was enough to piss me off, so I kneeled next to his ear and started talking:

Not being a historian, one might go even further and say that women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time— Clytemnestra, Antigone, Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, Phèdra, Cressida, Rosalind, Desdemona, the Duchess of Malfi, among the dramatists;

STOP, he begged. I BEG YOU TO STOP PLEASE

then among the prose writers: Millamant, Clarissa, Becky Sharp, Anna Karenina, Emma Bovary, Madame de Guermantes— the names flock to mind, nor do they recall women "lacking in personality and character." This is the woman in fiction. In fact, as Professor Trevelyan points out,she was locked up, beaten, and flung about the room.

He was so agitated that he seemed like he was going to drown in his own misery. Every part of his skin shedding blood.

Let me imagine, since facts are so hard to come by, what would have happened had Shakespeare had a wonderfully gifted sister called Judith, let us say. Shakespeare himself went, very probably— his mother was an heiress— to the grammar school, where he may have learned Latin— Ovid, Virgil, and Horace— Very soon, he got work in the theatre, became a successful actor, and lived at the hub of the universe, meeting everybody, knowing everybody, practicing his art. Meanwhile, his extraordinarily gifted sister, let us suppose, remained at home.

Like him, she had a taste for the theatre. She stood at the stage door; she wanted to act, she said. Men laughed in her face. The manager— a fat, loose-lipped man— guffawed. The heat and violence of the poet's heart when caught and tangled in a woman's body?— killed herself one winter's night and lies buried at some crossroads where the omnibuses now stop outside the Elephant and Castle.

He died
He died of his pain.
She cleaned him, made him pray; she ate him violently like a fat pig enjoying its last meal. She bathed in red, singing along to the songs of heartbreak. She absorbed him, his particles; she will shit some of those particles later, but she carved this man, like every other man, into her body
Determined
In love
Like a true cannibal
She made the poet's choice
The lover’s move
Cannibal’s longing
Mademoiselle de Sade

Like Orpheus
Lonely
Jacking off