Mother’s Ashes Feed the Roses

Rose Petals and a Flower Girl

On Mother’s Day they came
Back to their childhood home
Carrying their mother’s ashes
Hearing the voice of her wishes,
“I want my ashes to feed the roses.”

I woke up on Mother’s Day with a funeral outside the tall windows of the Master’s bedroom. The old man who built this home had passed decades ago, but his wife, the woman who looked out those tall windows in loneliness all those decades to the rosebush that blooms red in the California winter, just recently died.

And her children, who themselves have grown old and lonely, formed a procession outside what are now our windows and fed her ashes to the rosebush to fill their dead mother’s last request. This is what I did on Mothers’ Day. I walked outside and stood in my grey wool dress and red shoes, and silently hugged these lonely people before they walked back to their cars and drove away. I had nothing to say. There was nothing that needed to be said.

Later my daughter picked a ripe rose from the bush and gave it to me. The rose looked plump, juicy, full of life. Too soon the petals will dry and crumble to dust, just like the woman whose ashes joined the dirt under the bush. I hugged my daughter tight, smelled the freshness of the sun in her hair.

I gave in to the thought of my greatest fear: that my husband would leave me too soon, that I would one day take the place of the woman looking out the same tall windows of the Master’s bedroom, and that after I have withered in loneliness I too would be sprinkled at the foot of the rosebush. An offering in exchange for a ripe red rose.

I fit the rose within the thin lip of a crystal vase, appeasing its cut with water from the sink. I sank my own body in a bath, attempting to dissolve my fears. That night my man and I made love. Our sex is a violent act of defiance against decay and death. A fuck-you to the gods who watched from the seat of immortality and boredom.

Outside, the rosebush bore witness to our passion and rebellion. It taunted me, claimed my ashes even as our naked flesh glistened with sweat and come. My man and I spoke of perversions as if they would preserve our youth, magic incantations to release us from the rosebush’s bonds. We know we are doomed. No one has defeated death. Not rosebushes, not humans, not even gods whose names very slowly through the ages succumb to oblivion.

Until then our rituals of life challenge the call of the grave. I look out these tall windows naked and shameless, ready to frolic and fuck. You will not have me, you thorny fragrant beautiful bush, until I have exhausted every bit of life I can muster from my body. You will not feed off my loneliness and grief. Wait, you will, and for a very long time.

May Ling Su in cheongsam looks out tall window
See the rest of this photo series at MAYCAM.

Reposted from MAYCAM diary entry, 10 May 2011.

May Ling Su

The She-Demon of Trump Towers

For Donald Trump’s eighteenth birthday, the she-demon Satrina, who appeared as his college advisor, instructed him to bring her a goat as part of his final exam. He ran around the hot streets of the Bronx, down to Chinatown and Alphabet City, all the way out to Brooklyn and Queens. Just when he had given up and was on his way back, he finally found a makeshift petting zoo at Union Square.

The young goat was surrounded by children giggling and rubbing their fat fingers in the goat’s fur. Donald whipped out a wad of cash and negotiated with the stocky Mexican man tending to the animals. The man wouldn’t budge.

“No, la cabra not for sale. For children, see?”

It was two-thirty in the afternoon and he had no time to dicker. He kicked the Mexican man in the groin, pushed the children aside, and grabbed the goat. He ran. He could hear children wailing, mothers screaming.

One of them yelled, “Police!”

He kept running as the goat bleated into his ear. He headed for a stopped yellow taxi. An old woman with a cane was carefully lifting her leg into the cab. Donald pulled her and threw her to the curb. He got into the backseat with his stolen goat and slammed the door shut.

“The Bronx!” he ordered. The driver looked at Donald’s red sweaty face, looked at the whining goat, and drove away, leaving behind a beat cop scratching his head, holding a pad of paper and pen, surrounded by the Mexican man, mothers holding toddlers, and onlookers pointing toward the fleeing taxi and the old woman bedraggled on the sidewalk.

At three o’clock on his eighteenth birthday, Donald ran into his college advisor’s office in Fordham with the goat in his arms.

“You’re late.”

Satrina stood by the window in her office. Her black hair fell shiny and full down to her tiny waist. Her eyes shined like black diamonds.

Donald hadn’t yet caught his breath. His face turned even redder. After all the trouble of bringing her a goat, he wanted to scream.

“I will not tolerate tardiness in my apprentice, Donald Trump. You’re fired.”

Anger turned into fear. Donald’s face went from red to white. The stupid goat kept fussing in his arms.

“No, no, please,” he begged. “The goat. I got you a goat. It wasn’t easy.”

“Easy? Did you think it would be easy? Of course it wasn’t easy. If it was easy, everyone would win. Everyone would be president.”

“Please, I’ll do anything,” Donald fell to his knees. “Please take me back, I beg you.”

Satrina walked away. Donald followed her, still carrying the goat with him. They entered University Church. It was dark and empty. Satrina walked up to the altar and turned to Donald. She took the goat, and for the first time the goat was quiet.

“Prove yourself to me.” Satrina handed Donald a knife with an ornately carved handle. He took the knife with shaking hands. “You know what to do.”

He focused his eyes on hers. Her face was shrouded in shadow but colored light came in through gothic stained glass windows to illuminate her eyes. She held the goat and exposed its neck to him. That poor little lop-eared goat. Its fur was so white, its nose so pink. It stuck its soft pink tongue out and licked Satrina’s finger as she held its head up.

He did it. He slit the goat’s throat. It kicked against her as she sucked on its blood.

“Quickly!” she spat at him as she handed him back the dying goat. “Drink!”

Donald sucked. He felt a surge of power in his veins. The metallic taste of blood electrified from the center of his body to the tips of his limbs. He felt a roar well up in his throat. The goat’s kicking slowed until it stopped. She pulled the dead goat off his mouth and kissed him.

They sucked blood off each other’s mouths. She laid the sacrifice down on the altar, pulled Donald’s pants down, and pulled her black pencil skirt up over her thighs.

“Fuck me,” she ordered.

“Here?”

“Fuck my ass! Desecrate this altar with sodomy.”

She crouched on all fours and stretched her back like an animal. He mounted her, rammed his cock into her wet cunt.

“My ass, you numbskull!” she demanded. “Fuck my ass!”

He pulled out of her dripping cunt and pushed his lubricated cock into the tight pursed mouth of her anus.

“Yesss!!!” Her eyes rolled back in ecstasy, her breathy voice mumbled phrases in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, Farsi. He fucked into her until he emptied himself into her thirsting ass.

“I love you…” he cried. His voice sounded like the bleating of a dying goat.

Through the years, she guided him with every business deal, every property purchase, every decision. With her instruction, he built every Trump Tower the world over with a sub-basement.

“Your very own entrance to Sitra Ahra, where you rejuvenate your energy,” she said. No matter where in the world he is, he could come to the sub-basement of a Trump Tower, and there she would be. He never questions it. With his trust in her grows his wealth and power.

His prior marriages ended because his wives questioned his daily disappearances at three in the afternoon. Those wives did not know their place, and they had to be done away with.

Donald’s devotion is only to one. Satrina, the true Miss Universe, to whom the most beautiful women all over the world pay homage.

“My queen.” She never ages. She remains in the fullness of her beauty from the moment he met her to this moment, when he kneels naked in front of her, an aging multi-billionaire.

She digs her high heel deeper into his shoulder and pulls him toward her exposed cunt. Donald plants his mouth around her swollen clitoris and suckles like a babe. She grips his head by his hairsprayed hair and rubs the sensitive folds of her cunt around his swirling tongue. He inhales her deeply. He fills his every molecule with her. He drinks her eternal juices. She writhes and shudders with pleasure, then pushes him away from her.

“I want you to build me a large structure that extends all the way across America. Above ground it will be a wall, a border between the United States and Mexico. Underground it will be the biggest gate to Sitra Ahra.”

“Your wish is my command, my queen. When I am President…”

May Ling Su as a she-demon

May Ling Su