The Recital
An intimate collection of Madame's poetry, prose, satire and spoken word—written to be read, heard and performed.
The air between us
Oh I smell it, his envy.
Putrid and sharp.
Though this he'd deny.
A dirty dull yellow, sticky.
It wept from his pores.
As he gracefully opened the door,
a glare of contempt flashed across his eyes,
for the woman he proudly proclaims he adores.
"Man" child
Slave rewards Madame lavishly
to be humiliated creatively.
Slave, bewildered by ego,
by lust and self-aggrandizement,
will wriggle and writhe
as Madame's cane gives chastisement.
To spare the rod
is to spoil the man-child.
Oh, settle down, old chap—
that's putting it mild.
What a Ruse
A cock cage dear reader, is a beautiful thing. Madame finds it very attractive, much more attractive than an unsecured package.
It gives the cock form and structure, containment. 'Tis really all a man need wear, in my opinion.
The delusion of the dis-eased man is that it thinks the feminine enjoys gazing upon its sack and cock loosely hanging, swinging like a drunken, severely limbless octopus, walking around like a brain-dead imbecile, led by this drunken creature.
No discipline, no focus, just a fucking dribbling mess.
And THIS is the current leadership of this world.
No matter how expensive its suit, how polished the haircut, how shiny the shoes, when stripped back to it's bare bones, it was only a ruse.
The Lioness
Observe the Lioness in her natural habitat.
Graceful. Sensuous. Keenly observant.
She does not waste herself in frantic pursuit. She watches. She waits. Patient and deliberate, she studies the movements before her.
Beneath this exquisite stillness lives a fierce and ancient nature.
And today, she hungers for a most peculiar feast:
Ego death.
Into her territory wanders the conditioned man.
Laden with inherited armour, performance and pretence, he has learned to mistake these things for himself. He carries his conditioning as identity, his performance as masculinity, his Mask as face.
And, rather charmingly, he believes himself to be the hunter.
He is mistaken.
How genius it is that, to tame the man-child, the Lioness may utilise the very qualities that draw him near: her sensuality, her grace, her mystery and her fierce nature.
For the Lioness need not chase what desire will deliver willingly to her.
Lured in by his own hunger, the conditioned man ventures closer, believing there is something here for him to consume.
He approaches the sacred drinking Whole.
The sacred wholeness of the feminine.
He comes thirsty.
The Lioness waits.
Closer.
Closer still.
And then—
she goes straight for the jugular.
Jaws locked over the prey's throat,
no longer shall the ego protest,
nor the Mask emote.
The performance is interrupted.
The constructed voice falls silent.
For it was never the man himself the Lioness hungered to devour.
It was that which stood between the man and himself.
The armour.
The pretence.
The inherited performance.
The Mask.
And beneath it?
The man remains.
