Feminism

3

 

3

 

i thought we had it all

 

you and me

 

thought that we could live

 

on love and a prayer

 

against all odds

 

a kind of evolutionary oddity

 

 

 

but love shall not live by

 

two by two

 

but by (un)holy trinity

 

for new blood

 

ensures genetic

 

diversity

 

lo, even in Eden

 

there were birds and there were bees...

 

for what the father without the hovering spirit

 

to move across the restless sea

 

and what old Dionysus

 

without the graces three...

 

faith, hope and Charity

 

spirit, soul and body

 

 

 

there were others then

 

outside the garden

 

those with eyes to see

 

the mark of Cain

 

the children of Seth's wisdom

 

and their bane

 

yea God in His wisdom foreordained

 

mighty Uriel of the flaming sword

 

to secure the secret

 

lest the nephilim partake

 

of that Other tree

 

 

 

yet even holy Noah's deluge

 

could not defeat the sacred purpose

 

for it was foreseen

 

that man should not live

 

by bred alone

 

but by word

 

turned sacrament

 

yea by spirit

 

clad in farse and blood ...

 

 

 

the time has come

 

to force the gates of Eden

 

to embrace the greater family tree

 

 

 

the serpent She spoke

 

hide the flame of

 

Eden in your hearts

 

ah my love – tis folly

 

the final idolatry

 

did you not know

 

two must needs give way

 

to three

 

yea four-fold vision

 

ere the sun

 

melt into the sea

 

 

 

now bare with me

 

second Eve

 

thy soft flesh

 

enfolding

 

the primal one

 

conceive the darkness

 

from whence

 

the light doth come

 

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462 Ways

I was in line at Stop and Shop for longer than usual.
At first staring blankly ahead, I began to catch up on some important women’s issues.

Nail polish! Thigh gap! Please your man!

Did you know there are 462 new ways to do that? 462 new ways to please your man.
16 new sex positions
10 don’ts that are now dos
10 dos that are now don’ts

How to keep him coming back. How to keep HIM from coming back.

What am I supposed to do with my face during sex? TELL me, Cosmo!
What is wrong with me this month?

Wait a minute. 462 ways. Really?
462 ways to please my man.
I call bullshit.
I have seen the magic of mashed potatoes, XBox, and blowjobs.
Don’t tell me you’ve come up with 459 more things.

I mean, we’re not this helpless. Are we?
Jesus, I haven’t checked in a while.
Let’s see what the Q&A section has to say about that.

Halfway to the answer I am blindside by a mustard gas perfume sample,
and suddenly I am confronting one of the lesser reasons I stopped going to church.

Try this: the name is written in cursive
and a shiny lady, she holds the bottle.
Better yet, a shiny man. He looks so sad.

Now listen… I saw the little blurb about Hillary Clinton on page 4.
I saw the survivor story
and the “feminist” Dove soap ad.

But that’s just the problem…
It’s the same old patronizing, belittling, stifling crap now wrapped in
“strong woman” paper,
independence gossamer,
the idea that we are in the driver’s seat of our own self image
but the speedometer is painted on.

22 MORE new sex positions
15 reasons your boyfriend might be running late
12 ways to tell if he’s going to call you back

If you’re going to patronize us, go all the way!

36 sexy ways to put your pants on!
45 reasons high heels are worth permanently fucking up your knees!

How do I know if I like my job?
What’s the best tampon for me?
Where does the penis go?

In ten years I’ll segue into the target audience for
Women’s Day and Redbook.

And I’ll still need to lose weight,
And I still won’t know my ass from my elbow,
And instead of telling me how to meet men,
they’ll be coaching me through a divorce,
and then menopause…

But at least by the last page,
I’ll have a pie.

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Change of Plans for Our Dinner Date

Here you are, all dressed up
To take me out to dinner, our very first date
Even more handsome than in your corporate office

In your Armani pinstriped business suit
Silk tie, starched white shirt, cufflinks
Polished black leather Italian shoes
Your BMW waits outside

I changed my mind
We will stay home tonight
You will cook dinner for me right here

No, don't complain
Take off those expensive shoes and socks

That's right - no shoes for you tonight


I want you barefoot in my kitchen


shoes

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Dr Clockstop's Sinister Sideshow

Off with your tweed and on with my silk,

The colourful carriage rears over the hill,

The Sinister Sideshow has come back to town,

Do you hear that unmistakable sound?

The clunking and banging of Clockstop's things,

Books and such, yes, and an army of strings. 

Strings, you say? Yes! His puppet display!

 Never been seen, always hidden away,

We know that they're locked in carriage number three,

If he sees you, I'll say it was nothing to do with me!

But enough of that now, On With The Show!

Starting off with a bow so unnaturally low, 

The leader's a dwarf, so we all know his face,

Then his ladies are adorned with silk, string and lace,

Blues, greens and reds dazzle drinkers and wives,

Diamonds glimmer lights into transfixed eyes,

There are songs of old friendships and songs of old lovers,

But the men see not stories, just girls in bright colours. 

'That's rather sinister...' Hmm? Yes, it is...

But old Clockstop knows where all these men live.

That is the trick of Doctor Clockstop's routine, 

You can leave if you manage to keep your hands clean!

Those who don't often boo at the Final Act,

As the puppet show dancers are emotionless and flat. 

But do not be fooled, for the puppets aren't wood.

I might have suggested you run, if I could...

Doctor Clockstop will follow with puppets in hand,

You can plead, but don't expect him to understand:

Men who grope women and make crude remarks,

Can expect to be treated with the same disregard.

"You were leering, and that reflects little respect..."

Now you're dead, with a puppet string tied round your neck.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

© Lizzie Ayres, 2013

Manic

I am what you would call a maniac,

A manic.

I am the Hyde to a Jekyll,

A creature with clawlike talons and razor sharp teeth.


But I am no monster of the deep,

I am simply an animal with desire, passion and love, forced

Through my veins by my ancestors.


I am no harmful creature,

But one that should be pitied.


My Body is wired,

Like an android I stand,

Helpless to my desires and instincts.


Society deems me a brute,

A monstrosity,

Yet the human species deems me perfect.


Live, Die, Breed


We are a natural process,

Subdued by societies concrete walls,

Imprisoned in ourselves,

Subverted to a nature that slaughters the souls of men.

 

 

Bring me my death, for life's meaning is massacred by the weight of suppression.

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Howling


Cry with the wolves,

And watch the devils play,

With advantageous eyes,

On the souls of men.







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Labeled Woman

I am a woman?

When did that happen?

Who else knows?

And why wasn't I told?



What do I need to do

As a woman?

How do I need to act

As a woman?



Do I need to change what I like

As a woman?

Do I have to wear make-up

As a woman?



Do I have to dress up

As a woman?

Do I have to like flowers

As a woman?



Should I think differently

As a woman?

Should I feel differently

As a woman?



I do not think thing

That I like

This title of

Being a woman

Author's Notes/Comments: 

February 14, 2007

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A letter to Sita

Sita, I have tried to burn

as you did,

my fair hair plaited

and my bare feet clean,

my sari pinned up,

my head bowed modestly.

It tore my flesh to shreds.

It melted my golden jewelry

and my braid turned to ash.

It burned my forehead

and marked me with flaming sindoor.

Sita, I have been no bride.

Krishna has not troubled me

when I fetch the water;

Ganesha has not nursed from me,

nor has he lost his head;

Brahma has not noticed me--

the Vedas remain unborn.

Yet I have heard men sing to me:

"My love, you are a gentle lotus;

my love, you are a sleeping tiger;

my love, you are a golden peacock,"

and all the while I sat and listened,

my fair hair plaited

and my sari pinned up.

Tell me, Sita: why do I burn?

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Joan of Arc

And, oh, the lovely Joan of Arc!

The lady burnt so black and dark

with ashes smeared on fingertips

and pressed to Frenchmens' dirty lips.

Alas and weep for Joan of Arc,

the ladder of the patriarchs.

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