The children born of Venus break through their bounds, voices loud, brave, beautiful roars that echo across the world, hair tumbling down their backs as they run, carrying the fates of their younger sisters on their shoulders.
Windows light up as they pass, faces and fingers press against the glass, girls are gleeful, desperate for a glimpse of the leopards as they leap into action. Claws shimmering and sparkling in the moon’s soft light strike down the weak, whispering shadows that surround the town square.
A man shuffles towards the leopard, trying to tower above her with his stocky chest and curt voice. He fails, falling to the ground as he asks her again to submit, the certainty of his power begins to crumble with each step the leopard takes, and surrounded by her sisters, watched by the ones who will one day be women, she looks him in the eye and begins to sing.
There is a song that I don’t know, because my voice has not been boxed into my throat, she floats free from my bedroom window, soars across stages, so unaware of her security, but there are places, and there are beautiful voices that know it’s melody all to well.
It is a song of captured chanteuses, stuck behind storied walls, their voices are innocent, but imprisoned, in case they effect “helpless” men, whimsical, wistful refrains are restricted, to save weak, impotent arseholes from their irrational fears. So called strong men, screaming and scrambling at sweet, soft songs, from the alleged weaker sex. There is a song that I don’t know, it’s unfamiliar but so disarming, a defiant drum beat under the sunny siren calls, the song of the captured chanteuses, who must be set free.
On today’s episode, Jennifer talks about what kind of serial killer she would be, projection of bad habits, whether world war three is actually going to happen or not, and waking up with the perfect person.
Jennifer also updates you on the recent events in British politics, including the row over peerages, the labour leadership contest, and Layla Moran coming out.