Side One:
A Small Measure of the Divine Feminine Saves Honorable Matthew
(Greatest of Justices of The Highest Court)
There’s a day I’ll never forget—
Not even five months old, left
Without mother, without father
At Dottyma & Papa’s place.
Sick—so sick,
Helpless, without love,
Mom was gone,
And I was trapped in that crib,
Breath stolen by the wheeze in my chest.
I’d never felt lonelier,
Lost in some strange dream,
Powder blue pastel walls
Closing in. Now-dead-blood framed
Alongside a glaze of Monet’s.
A fever dream, a faraway landscape.
I howled, a baby abandoned,
Missing the warm arms of Mom,
Like the world was nothing but
An empty, hollow echo.
I wanted to die.
Nothing seemed as real as my misery.
Then it happened—
A tremble from Heaven itself,
Clouds split, and the dim,
Blue room blazed with Holy-FIRE—
A tremendous light poured in.
Imagine the deepest warmth you’ve ever known,
Like the womb, only higher,
Heroin-smooth and softly stoned.
Skeptical of eternity,
But knowing—somehow knowing—
You’d live forever, if you could stay
In this light.
Then she appeared—
A woman I’d never seen,
Glorious in her nightgown,
Hair falling loose,
Or maybe curlers still in,
But she was the most beautiful thing,
More beautiful even than those eyes,
Those crying, loving eyes
That brought me into this world.
No, this one—
She overflowed with light,
Deeper than anything I could grasp.
Like she carried within her
Every sweet, soft thing,
Gilded marshmallows and chocolate raindrops,
The wellspring of love itself—
And she was pulling me in,
Dunking my head beneath it,
Drowning me in her warmth.
She held me, hushed my pain,
Sang songs that healed.
Because of her,
I cannot stand the sight
Of murdered innocents,
Of child-suicides.
Because of her, I know—
We cannot, must not,
Abide the Gynocide
Of the fairer half
Of our deepest being.

Side Two: The Holocaust of the Divine Feminine within Kahlil
(The Gynocide bleeding the World around)
There’s a day Kahlil will never forget,
Not in all the short days he lived.
He wasn’t even two,
Still learning to taste the world
Through his mother’s voice,
Her lullabies sweet
With notes from Tala' al-Badru 'Alayna¹.
But even then, he felt the tremors—
Her anxiety wrapped in soft songs,
Tears slipping down her unveiled face.
Even a fool child could see the fear.

Three death-screams shattered his dreams,
Three sharp staccato bursts of gunfire
Lit the air in their village.

Kahlil’s head snapped back,
Heavier than his tiny frame could bear.
Gums aching, teething into a violent world.
His mother stumbled, but she held him close,
Whispered hushing words in his ear.
She laid him down in his crib, kissed her fingers,
Pressed them to his forehead—
A second of softness,
Then gone.
All he saw was the ceiling,
Those dead red-brown walls
Washed in ugly, putrid purple—
Sick with the sins of war.
War was in every home here,
Every street & town & city.
War was in every heart & soul.
All the walls painted ugly purple,
Save the ones that lay flat on their backs.
They were the saddest, broken-home ghoul-grey,
Highlighted with the gravest black.
The shouting tore through his world,
Burned his ears, broke his soul.
She screeched and clawed at Father,
Like Iblis² possessed her,
Turning her love into rage.
That day taught Kahlil everything—
About life and love,
Milk and...