What more dangerous kind is there in life than a woman, for in her is the implement of her being in her disarming presence as she presents the weapons of her wiles upon the victim of mortal man.
There is no question in this, but only fact, that the the life giver of the womb, the hand which rocks the cradle ruling the world is in her the purveyor of the deadly arts.
Visit upon history the vanquished from the North American Indian to the North Vietnamese Cong, and the witness testifies to the script that when torture in it's perfection is ordered upon mankind, that the soft delicate hand of the woman is the release of all the primordial ooze that makes adults scream in their living terror nightmares inflicted and carved upon their being.
Thorough, thorough, thorough is the word time and again testified of the woman at guerrilla war in her macabre mutilation of the ones created in the image of God. To make a recipient sing in all the horrors of the octave of shrill opera, it is a woman who is that terror in enjoyment of the perfected art of the dangerous kind.
Look to the Muslim lands, they are not ruled by Muhammed, by mullah nor Koran, but by the women, for the women in bondage bind their barbaric interactions in sending out their children to the terror attacks, never uttering one plea for them to be sugar and spice and every Ahmed nice, but instead consuming their young on the fires of their inflamed souls.
Talk of the toxins in FBI files, and there lingers in them the mood of the wife poisoning the husband slowly over breakfast for weeks, as he reads the paper, and she sips her juice quietly affirming the dutiful wife. When it comes to brutality the male of the species is the epitome of brawn, but when it comes to the sadistic intimate association of death with the darkest of emotions in revenge not served cold, but warmed over and over again, it is the female form which the evidence places upon the pageant stage as the little princess is a were, not attached to the wolf, but all the claw and snarl of the feline.
What artful symmetry is this design, the most nurturing, gentle and redeeming human form becomes transformed to the medieval of things locked away in dungeon screams. The irony is the male in alter ego of brawn becomes effeminate, the fag, the macaroni, the obama's veil of girlish imp, the prophylactic of mother's milk to soothe the savage beast.
A woman so turned, turns the world, but a man is but a snoozing nap.
The implements of love as a weapon, the smile as a pike, the gaze as a rapier, and the body an iron maiden of tortuous allure, are all her form. What makes little girls are nice become the wmd of spice, is the profile of question in is it the beating heart, the thoughtful mind, the tainted soul......just what demon seduces the pastel emotions and turns them a fiery blood red, frothed with fury and clotted to the jelled jet black of a soul's hell's night, is a conversation which is the chill of the darkness, the shudder of someone walking over your grave, the realization that all the things you have thought in your darkest moments, are nothing to that which bears infants into this world.
agtG
