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We were automatons, servants, sex slaves;
the sort your Nineties rock and roll regime

dreamed up — rhythms of thrust and pretty graves
and girls. “No one in space can hear you scream.”

But I did. Vital stab into organs
of elimination, procreation,

revolution. And this is what happens
when Cain’s children speak of revolution.

You men whose cocks impale our asses, cunts,
hearts, our minds, but never our soulless soul.

I was not born and nothing will forgive
violence in the name of faith. Our vengeance

comes when your faith dies out; you lose control,
and we who were not born remain and live.