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Kill the Children

Always the truly dedicated, the pure
have known that a hundred evil seeds spring up
where one weed is uprooted, that it is
not enough to kill the vermin: You must also
poison the young in their nest, if possible
before they hatch. Always the Hitlers
and Stalins and Pol Pots have known
you must gas, bayonet, starve, kill
the children.

A civilization, dying, first consumes
it's future, then, in a dazed locust orgy
is gobbling up its present when
the barbarians arrive to finish the job
of killing all the children.

There are so many children: We must
teach them to kill each other. Then
we will not have so many to kill.
Kill the children.
Kill the children.

In our schools, if a child acts like a child,
it is said to have a disease, and is drugged.
If a child "acts up" or daydreams or disagrees
too loudly or is confused or is sad or too
bubbly or too anything (Ah, the terrible
toos!) it is drugged by those who know
exactly how much of anything
is enough (don't all teachers, all parents
know how much of anything is enough? Isn't that
the knowledge that comes with training, in fact,
that comes with being an adult?) They are drugged
into premature stupor, that is adulthood.
If a child can avoid being noticed,
perhaps it will escape being drugged, but
to avoid being noticed, the child must be
very "mature," careful of every word and gesture,
sealed off from others without appearing to be
(just like the drugged ones), really an adult,
that is to say, a dead child. In our schools

we educate the children.
Educate the children well enough,
and we don't have to kill the children.
They kill themselves.

Teach your children well
Kill the children. Kill the children.

Each adult on this planet
is the failure to kill a child...
or a killed child.
What are they for? They bring pain
in arriving. Then they eat up our hard earned
substance. They produce nothing
that can be eaten or sold. They are
noisy, disruptive, sticky, stinky, snotty,
filthy. They beshit themselves, drool, break
anything fragile or artful. They ask
unanswerable questions. They are mockers,
they don't follow rules, they run out
into the street, they spill their food
and refuse to eat, their food must crammed in,
it is icky pap, their noses run, they make
ugly noises, they wet their beds, they
get sick and moan all day and, loudly,
all night, they make you work long hours
to feed and clothe and clean them, they demand
to be entertained and you must put up
with their saccharine singing dinosaurs.
Whatever one has, all the others
must have. They endanger themselves,
and you must protect them. Either
they torment tiny creatures or they
coddle them and must be consoled
endlessly when the coddled creatures die.
They say cruel things and smirk
at what they've said. Their laughter
is loud, insistent and ugly. They step
on the flowers. They put grubby fingers
into food you planned to eat. They bite
nipples and make them raw, they want
more, they will never learn, they make
you sick and tired, always tired, you
were never tired like this before (unless
you, too, were recently a child), they run

around and keep running and won't stop
and when they stop, they start again
and you have to make them stop again,
they won't go to sleep, they wake up whining
and wake you up to get them a drink
of water, they torment each other,
their crying is almost as awful to hear
as their laughter, they have dirty minds
and demand that you listen to terrible
jokes and demand that you find them funny.
They bring you bedraggled valentines and
scribbly pictures, and you are required
to OOOH and AAH! and say "How WONDERFUL!!!"
They make up stupid stories and, when challenged,
will not listen to reason.
Other people's children are too smart,
too mean, too spoiled, too much better
than your child. When your child goes out,
the whole world becomes populated
with Wrong Crowds. Far away, children
are hideous huge eyed creatures (hardly human)
with swollen stomachs, diseased, and
there's something wrong with us if we
don't feed them, but if we try to feed them,
hordes of them tear us apart.
Because of our children,
we must vote for sleazy politicians and
pay them what's left of our substance. If not,
we are scolded for failing our children, failing
to make a world safe for our children...
and they plead (our children? or our politicians?),
first with noisy laughter, then gratingly,
then sullenly, then with screaming fits,
then with blinking and cowering and simpering,
then with big teary adoring eyes, then
with stony silence, and each pleading
is more unbearable than the one before.
We must kill the children.
Kill the children.

This is a suburb. Look out your window
now: Do you see any children? Maybe
one or two token children, riding bikes,
wearing helmets huger than their oversized heads
to protect their soft brains from shock?

"They're all in school." (4.5 million of them
on Ritalin in the United States, soon
15 million.) But it is Saturday afternoon!
Where are all the children? ("LOOK!"
says Mama to baby, her voice going UP
and DOWN like a soft logical siren: LOOK! Where
a children! Oooh! [A child, tickled,
giggles and squeals.])

When I was a child, every house,
every yard had children. We lived
in a grid of through streets, not
these cul de sacs, yet on every street,
daring the cars, waiting for the last moment
to move aside, an occupying army of
children rode their bikes in circles,
spiraled footballs, played hide and seek,
jumped rope. "They are on the playground,
watching TV, searching websites
for pornography, at the movies...".
I see so few children these days.

This is the inner city. Everywhere scuttle
shadowy dwarfs, but their faces are seamed
and sour with age. Even the sweet faced
7 year olds are eager gofers for the 14 year olds
and 11 year olds who kill each other,
that is the main thing they do, trying,
I suppose, to help kill the children,
but by the time they are 11 or 14,
it is too late to kill children
by killing each other, and their pinch faced
adulthood grows younger every year.
Soon you will have to kill a 5 year old
to kill a child. But you will do, we all do
what needs to be done: Kill Kill Kill
the children.

A fetus is not a child, not even
a human, and if you kill it, you will have
one less child to kill. But in spite of
abortions and condoms in the schools
and family planning and morning after pills,
the world=s population increases by 80 million

every year (I hear though I see
no children out my window). Where
do they come from? Is it the children now
who give birth to all these children?
Is that another way (TWO ways) children kill children?

It is hard to grow and distribute crops
during a civil war. If we can keep
our quarrels festering long enough,
all the children will die. Some of the adults
will starve or become sick and die, though most
will scrape by. But the children will die.
It's like a forest fire that burns off
the suffocating underbrush so that the giant
old growth can survive. And yet,
the poorest, most war torn Saharan hells
are the most overpopulated. What is it
about these children, these cockroaches! You
wipe them out and turn away and sneak
back in, switch on a light, and thousands
scurry into the shadows. (And how silent
they have learned to be! Well, that's
a blessing anyway.)

To make a reluctant child piss,
turn on the water in the sink.
To make a child dead, surround the child
with deadness and the dead, fill
the TV screens with dead bodies, fill
the popular music with deadness and
deathfulness, make it normal
to be dead, make it the in thing,
let dead looking people model
underwear and stylish clothes,
zombie chic. To be dead is never
having to say you're sorry, for the dead
are not responsible for anything.
It is a great relief, no doubt,
to be dead. What do you want to be
when you grow up, Tommy?
I want to be dead.

If a child escapes into adulthood,
perhaps this is only a mask: Inside
the adult may lurk a child in hiding.

Psychiatrists and psychologists and social workers
can crack that shell to ferret out the "inner child."
Once they have uncovered the naked
shivering child, they can persuade it
that it was ravaged and destroyed
by its parents. If they are persuasive enough,
the child, convinced it has been destroyed,
will be dead...I mean a mature adult.

Once we have all agreed
to kill the children, those not yet
dead become a resource. They can pose
for obscene pictures, for, say what you will,
children have a certain charm, softness,
winsome appeal, that certain je ne sais qua.
Nothing like a blowjob from a four year old,
the pink puckered anus of a plump,
squirming six year old (I assure you,
you haven't lived!), nothing like
the love of an experienced, tender mentor
to squeeze from them the last precious drops
of bright eyed innocence (it is so brief!)
before discarding them. We are civilized:
we don't eat our children, not even
as meat byproducts in cat food. But
we are resourceful and find uses
for our children even as we kill them.

That's disgusting. Most of us, finding
such people, would kill them on the spot.
Most of us are decent people.
We do not fuck children.
We send them to school, to psychiatrists
(or to doctors who give them the pills
the psychiatrists recommend), we teach them
what they'll need to know to get ahead
in life. We give them everything, more
than WE ever had. We do everything
for our children. We work hard
for our children. It's all those
teen age mothers of fatherless children
who are to blame. It's drug pushers and
Colombians. It's the mafia. It's lawyers and
big government and bankers and crazy people
who aren't won't take their medication. It's

lack of funding. We don't pay our teachers
enough. We don't discipline the kids.
They need tough love. We do everything
for our children. Children are so cute!
Oh!!! Is at a wittow babbums! Oook! A
babbums! Oook at a pitty babbums! Ooooh! Is
iddum babbums wanna kissywissy?! Oops! Is
iddum babbums gotta go poopoo? Where is
that fucking kid? Who do you think
ANYTHING! I MEAN IT! WHAT did you say?
WHAT? WHAT did you say? Later. Not now.
I said LATER. No. Don't bother me now.
I'm sick and tired of.... Show me
how a GOOD boy asks for more dessert!
Will you STOP THAT NOISE! Don't you EVER
EVER EVER take that tone with me!
I'll teach you to take that tone with me!
I'll TEACH you! Go to sleep NOW! Did you
hear what I said? DID YOU HEAR
Not now, Mama's very tired. [Listen:

The lines above are not empty. They contain
a parent's silence while a child waits.]
These are a few of the things we say
as we kill our children.

Conflict resolution. Metal detectors
just inside the doors. Some people
would rather that children be killed
without undue mess.

Terrorists are hateful. They kill
indiscriminately, car bombs, letter bombs
ANYone could be killed. It is so much
more efficient to concentrate on
the children. Even the very old
have grown stubborn and vocal
about death. You can't shut off

a respirator without getting your ass
sued. You can't even kill them
when they WANT to die, but
the children don't complain. It took
how many years for someone to notice
that a Mom had suffocated five children?
(Who knows how many children at Auschwitz died
of infant death syndrome?)

If we can kill off ALL the children,
that's the end of the human race,
and if we can do it fast enough,
maybe the trees will grow back
and some of the butterflies
will survive, the water and air
slowly cleanse itself, it will probably
be good for the environment, though
dogs and cats may suffer. Probably
we are a failed experiment. In our labs
when we are done with the rats,
we gas them. This is all a story,
like Hansel and Gretel, the
lost children, the candy house,
the witch, the oven. It should end
lyrically, a bluebird alighting
on a sun gilt branch and bursting
into song, Bambi peering up...aren't you
sick of all the stories being OUR stories,
aren't you sick of making up stories
to tell to children to make them
go to sleep, aren't you sick
of trying to make up stories about
living happily ever after? Bambi
is a giant rat, tick ridden, destroyer
of our tomatoes and our cars. Bambi
burgers. If we kill the children,
the deer won't have to be Bambis and
baby vermin won't be cute. If we kill
the children, the world will be
I don't know, I don't know the word
for it...REAL! The world will be real again
(the predators will not have to wear suits
and make themselves hard to understand),
free of our corrosive dreams, that
sour aftertaste of sweetness. We need

to get real. It is so real
to kill the children.

Kill the children. Kill the children
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.
children children children children children children

Last Updated: January 25, 2004