The warrior with his weapons taken away

Ever have one of those days where all you can think is red-hot haze? Those are the days the animal in you needs to hunt. Those are the days where we go out and drink and fight and fuck. Kill or die, rape and pillage. I can see my ancestors, celtic warriors, franks, danes, visgoths, […]

Ever have one of those days where all you can think is red-hot haze?

Those are the days the animal in you needs to hunt.

Those are the days where we go out and drink and fight and fuck. Kill or die, rape and pillage. I can see my ancestors, celtic warriors, franks, danes, visgoths, all those party animals who sacked rome again and again. I can see, sometimes, how simple a life it would have been. My axe, my spear, maybe a war club, nothing but white-hot berserker rage to fuel me, that and maybe some crude fire-water, some foul-tasting, sour mead or ale. Sweep in, screaming and roaring, over-whelm my foes with my fury and need to kill and crush, rend and tear.

Then bloody and battered, a captured wine bottle in my hand, I find the treasure, the prize won. The women await, for a different kind of violence.

Simple. Kill or die. The winner takes the prize. The most powerful, most beastly, gets the choice of the spoils.


Today, yesterday, this last week, I am that warrior, my a brass-bound war club in my hand and murder and fury in my heart. I would storm the castle, tear down the walls with brute strength, giving up only when a smoking, crumbling ruin lies behind. Strike down my foes; brutal, violent, ending the way I’ll end some day, the day I’m not the stronger, the faster, the harder.

That’s what my mind says. But this isn’t 400 AD. I don’t get to solve my problems that way. I have to negotiate. I have to compromise. I have to support and facilitate and make adjustments and work on myself.

Fuck it. Get me my mighty war hammer. This day, I shall die in battle, bloody and torn, and will be burned while women weep o’re my hero’s carcass. Or! I shall emerge victorious, blood-slicked, only some of the gore my own. Simple solutions to simple problems; I die, or you die, or you fall before me and beg for you life. I grant it.

Fuck the way we live today. I’d rather die with a sword in my hand.

I sit with a burning rage. I, modern man. Civilized, suburban, respectable. I sit here with the caveman’s need to strike at what vexes him, to solve things in the most primitive way possible, and I’m constrained by who, what, where. I’m fourty-something. I know better, I know the costs of my excesses. I know better now.

I hate knowing better. I fucking hate it. Knowing better makes me a pressure-cooker. It makes me an over-heated boiler, with no pressure relief.

A song comes to mind. Keresone.


Nothing to do, sit around at home
Sit around at home, stare at the walls
Stare at each other and wait till we die
Stare at each other and wait till we die
Probably come to die in this town
Live here my whole life
There’s Kerosene around.
There’s Kerosene around, something to do
There’s Kerosene around, she’s something to do
There’s Kerosene around, she’s something to do
There’s Kerosene around, we’ll find something to do
Kerosene around, she’s something to do
Kerosene around, set me on fire!!!!

There’s something I could do that would make it all go a fucking way. And I know it. And I feel it.

I need to fuck someone so hard it hurts. I need to drive in deep and hard and hear a scream and not care that it hurts, like that it hurts. I want to sink teeth in and taste fucking blood, I want to leave bruises everywhere I touch. I want to wrench an orgasm from someone by pure violence.

I want to tear someone’s fucking soul out with my cock and then put it back in the same way.

I need sex that hurts tonight. I need to be reborn in blood and pain and anger and rage and love.

Because it’s love. Fuck Gavin fucking Rossdale, there is sex in my violence. There’s fucking love in my violence.

That is what I can do. The warrior with his weapons taken away, with no good place to put that animal rage, no place for it’s power and fury. Modern man is told his fury, his rage, his anger is bad. But where does it go, when they say let it go? There’s no away.

Sometimes it has to come out. Sometimes it has to come out the way pressure must escape from a boiling pot. Sometimes the rage, the pressure, the anger, can be something else, can be pain and love and freedom and joy.

Come here and let me take you there. Come here and take Me there.

Blood’s gonna flow. It might as well me mine, it might as well me yours. It might as well be together

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