Rape–

“I. Against her will.
II. Without her consent.
III. With her consent, when her consent has been obtained by putting her in fear of death, or of hurt.
IV. With her consent, when the man knows that he is not her husband, and that her consent is given because she believes that he is another man to whom she is or believes herself to be lawfully married.
V. With or without her consent, when she is under fourteen years of age.

Exception. Sexual intercourse by a man with his own wife, the wife not being under thirteen years of age, is not rape.”


Slavery–

I. Against her will.

II. Without her consent

III. With her consent, when her consent has been obtained by putting her in the fear of death , or of hurt.

IV. With her consent, when the firm/executive knows that they are not her current employers, and that her consent is given because she believes the firm/executive in question to be, or she has been made to believe, her current employers.

V. With or without her consent, when she is under fourteen years of age.

Exception. Work, when she claims her consent has not been obtained by the employer, and as an extension by the state, which hereby drafts this law in her name, because consent, as defined by the penal charter, is subject to Clause III of the code of ethics for work, which says that it is considered slavery “when her consent has (been) obtained by putting her in the fear of death, or of hurt”

I surmise then, that it is the indeed the fear of death which looms over me and my brethren and sistren, in so far as we do fear being the undertaker’s midnight shift, our bellies hollow husks of corn, echoing with the liberty you have bequeathed upon us– when we refuse to work for our employers, when we refuse to work for any employer, and our inner bobby sands declares that yes, we do want to be exiled from your maze, carried out by your unionist warden, and no, we will not rise from the ashes of the old world, or whatever your poets jack off to, for we will not wait for you to burn, and we will not confront the barrels of your muskets with the whites of our eyes. For we do not owe you that resistance, so that you might legitimize your parenthood. We will neither write about hasina, nor about rana plaza, to the DGFI intern who put her name on google Alert, nor speak any language you expect us to speak, neither allow ourselves to be branded as paychecks with loudspeakers, because we will drink Coke with a knife in your back, the days will pass, and our grip will loosen, but the knife will turn into wheels, and the figures of speech of today will become stale, and the snowmen of our ventilators will rain like gary powers’ v2s à la fatmen pamphlets onto beaches, to sewing machines, to whorehouses, to asylums, onto the bronx, the ones in karwanbazarbegunbari geneva-camp, like the ones in rio, where the abandoned pools surf venice beach, like the ones in the latin quarter, like indigenous similes in the Serengeti coltan meadows, like the human faces pasted across the intersections of prague, to hollywood boulevard which will throw mujahideen-grown opium tomatoes at screenings of soviet tank-men raising their fists to our pipe dreams, in your sewers.

Water your own favelas,
Bloom your own ghettos,
Larvae your metaphors,
Fuck Butterflies.

*Terms and Conditions apply.

 

 

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