For the Woman Who Asked Why I Write Dirty Poems
Father! Make him stop this solitary vice.
The boy is touching himself,
spilling his seed,
killing his babies,
self-abuse.
He'll go blind.
He'll go crazy.
He'll die young.
He's a pervert.
Satan controls him.
Bind his hands.
Beat him each night.
Tie his wrists to the headboard
so he can't reach his parts.
Strap his feet to the bedpost
so his thighs can't rub.
Cover his genitals
with a hard metal shield.
An obstinate case?
Attach a red hot wire to his penis.
Mother! Save your daughter
from this vile venery,
this vicious habit.
The girl is touching herself.
She will be ruined,
her parts infected, grotesque.
Nymphomania is her lot.
She will seduce her father.
Sterility will follow,
or deformed babies.
She will never marry.
Her brain will rot.
Contaminated.
Corrupted.
Hell awaits her.
Remove her from school.
Tie her.
Beat her.
Burn her.
Cut her vulva.
Hollow out her clitoris.
Force her into marriage.
It is your duty!
Yes, these treatments are real medical advice, past and present.
I write elegies for damaged children,
Requiems for shattered lives.
I write sexual sonnets,
poems of protest,
rhymes of rebellion.
I write Odes to Freedom,
songs of Joy reclaimed.
Find heaven in your own divination!
Your torch, your touch,
your magic wand, your birthright.
Tenderly tease out your wetness.
Taste your own luscious liquid.
Light the candles of your lust.
Look at your lovely layers,
enjoy your own reflection.
Nestle in your bed clothes,
or in the open air of your father's pastures.
Pluck the fruit from the china bowl
on your mother's credenza,
and trace your curves
with a berry's scarlet juices.
Cup your tender nipple
in the soft center of a sun-ripened Peach.
Wanton and wild,
find your sweet spot, and more!
A cunt, when caressed,
cancels each can't.
Desire reaches your core,
deeper than a decree.
A want, delightfully whetted
and deliciously satisfied,
is stronger than a should.
Touch yourself.
Touch yourself.
Touch yourself!
An unfettered orgy of one.
This is so true about how young males and females were treated throughout the ages, and not just in one culture. This has harmed so many that it really needed to be put out there and you have not only blown it out of the water by putting the harsh reality of what is and what could be. Great job*
ReplyDeleteAfter reading this, my mind immediately went to Andrea Dworkin's rendition of 'The Story of o' I can't explain why - maybe it is because of the torture in your poem or the freedom of enjoying yourself ? I must contemplate my thoughts*
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