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The Bureau of Emasculation

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play off reflection, I caught you staring in the mirror,
playing through a bit of high,
but I work hard enough,

it won’t be a problem

always starting at the same time,

always starting too late
the grip feels good in my hand
the rubber against stiff fingers
we wouldn’t want the Callous
they’ve hollowed out the underside
to take away feeling
stuffed with sawdust and formaldehyde
I never could be full enough
good enough for you
sew it shut
sand down the veins
and pare mushroom tip

it wasn’t so long ago
foreskin charms
phallus necklace
earrings always
dangle

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Addiction

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Isn’t it just like a man?
Sitting, watching the swaying hips
each conniving turn.


She slithers
through the blue cigarette smoke.
I do things differently,
doorways for suckers.
I brace for impact,
through layer after layer
clearing out foundation after foundation
taking years to establish
but moments to dissipate.


She pulls at the meat
twirling it between her fingers
throwing it from her talons
into the air
to her tapered beak.

Could we all be monsters
demon lurking in the night
loitering under street light
looking to the painted faces
and the saber tooth heel?

What could I feed her?
What cherished memories sacrificed
for the next high?

 

 

(I do not support; strongly condemn the type of misogyny in this poetry,(though it is a perspective in society that needs to be addressed) she’s intended to be terrible because of what she represents, NOT because she is a woman.)
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Bastards

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“I can fuck any bitch I want”

Rattling off foul consonances and vowels

The terrible mantra boys

Chant off in the school yard

Like throwing mud on the third

Grade sweetheart

That makes their mother so ashamed

Ironic

They can say these things

Off the cuff

When the father

They’ve never met

Sits at a bar in Mexico

Says the exact same things

About their mothers.

We know how it feels to sit

On top of the world

And spit on the creatures below

Like birds on a telephone wire

Waiting for the one wearing

The worst day

To add insult to injury

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Meninism: Closer to the Truth

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I still see your face everywhere I go

The sordid expression

Menacing whispers of pain

If I didn’t have to hurt

Would you remain so

Armed and guarded?

Ready to take the tip of the tongue

From any sweet talking man?

Would you remain

A warrior christened in blood?

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Rotten Old Bukowski (Explicit)

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Rotten old men

Standing like their

Rotten cocks

Erect

They watch the mothers

And children play.

Some watch the mothers

In skirts, tight, amorphous

Bending over

Their great asses

Blocking out the sky.

The daughters cowering behind

Oval shadow

Others watch the children

Thumbs perked up

Wriggling between two

Moist, pursued lips

Blowing their

Boo-boo’d thumbs.

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The Enigma of the Grey Page

stock-photo-wood-textured-backgrounds-in-a-room-interior-on-the-forest-backgrounds-114391438Tripping over the sprouting roots

Peeled

And sprouting from my psyche.

Looking for meaning

Within the incessant questioning

Why?

Mother’s crying behind bruises

Why?

The flair of fish belly

And the ocean is a barren

Toxic desert

Why?

Work, Class, Love, Work, Class

Through the wrong lens

Liberty is prison

Why?

The hand that once nurtured

Strangles smothers

The flowers are all dead

Why?

It doesn’t get better

We just keep asking

Why?

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A Feminine Ball of Yarn

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*Written from a woman’s perspective.

 

Tufts of thread out of the palm of his hand. A spool of yarn slowly undone down curling dirt roads. Our steps are not our own as we’re dragged down the trail littered with pot holes, but we refuse to let the yarn hit the ground as we grow smaller and the man’s smiling face is far, his only sign a taut string following the curves in the horizon. I know I must be minuscule before I can gather myself to that smiling man for I am unwound. The strand frays and I struggle to stay inches above the cakes of mud.