Poetry!!! For Women who are tired of this patriarchal bollocks!!!
Fuck this serfdom! Fuck it!
Ok. I have gotten a little pissed, to put it mildly, ONCE AGAIN at what supposedly passes for poetry these days.
It’s not fucking poetry!
You want to read some poetry? Here’s some effing poetry!!!
Prose arranged in lines on a page to look like poetry is not, fucking, poetry!!!
Poetry cannot be rearranged on a page to look like prose! That’s the fucking test, ok!!!
Ok. You will be thankful to know that I had a little drinky-break in the meantime.
Well, yesterday and today, thanks to a fervent burst of perfect thoughtforms, I wrote some poems for you.
People seem to love my poems - like, more than my fucking stories, for some reason. There is a part of me that fucking hates that, of course, but then there’s this other part that is like ‘yeah! I’m a fucking poet! Fuck you Mother!’
Hmm. Well. That’s for another poetry collection (I’m working on it).
In the meantime, I’m giving you two of these new poems what I wrote today and yesterday.
If they are not appreciated, then please be aware that I have recently made the acquaintance of this unseemly Russian bloke who makes his living out of selling Kalashnikovs.
So if you don’t click that like button down there, and the share button, also down there and all that jazz, then you might just wake up in the middle of the night tomorrow with, erm, well, you do the fucking math.
POETRY!!! REAL POETRY!!!
HERE IT IS!!!
Fervent Wedding Curses
My wedding day was gone to me My friends went dead with my bad thoughts And formed these fervent curses I loved and I loved, you know, I loved or so I fought for her I fought. White knights, yeah, that’s what they thought With me in white as if I’d never fucked in all my life Well no, deep me down wishing this heart well My friends, oh fucking drown them all If they deny my lesbian heart And let me go to hell again. We burned our souls as one alone Without my friends to swell my soul No witness oh, no witness to my heart with her So yeah, she also knows To fuck this Church And let them all to hell.
My Serfish Soul
Go back to the origin When the origin incel Hated my vulva For making me love so much more than he could Clinch my wrists my million more nerves go back to the origin And I wish I could Cradle his boyish heart And parade some new love into his better parts Go back, go back, and slow down And breathe, boy. Adolescence is not so hard when you love me No, it is not so fixed or bent or hard when you mature. It’s not so hard relax, boy That bitch adolescence will love or adore Your boyish spurts and Come again you said you were saying something I will not leave you for this mistake It claims yeah, it claims you. Spin that vinyl one more time And kiss me in your bedroom Please It hurts me too this too will pass One day, yeah, I will marry you I will. Adolescence is a bitch, boy It loves you as it hurts you And it hurts my cervix too it hurts This wanton heart my fervent thoughts It’s all gone wrong, you know it’s fallen This too will pass, This too will pass you Strange, I feel in my dreams these days When you dream of that other girl in days gone past When men were gentle and loving And they wrote me poems like this And you know… You know what, my lord Remember on our wedding day I am a soul. You may think I am only a woman but no, I am a soul. I will not give my self to one who hurts I will I will. I cannot help my self for loving you. My penance is here. My wedding day. The right of first night. Oh the justice. Hurts my cervix and makes me arrive. Oh yes. That right, on this first night of burning brighter… Oh yes, that burning brighter And the sun rises And the morning after Oh my soul. Oh… My worthless purpose. My notion of I don’t know, My something. My serfish soul. My love. My serfish soul…
Anyway!!! It’s Friday night, I have had a little to drink, but I will not apologise.
If you like my poetry, please do consider that like button and that share button and ooh - yeah! - there’s a book of my poetry you can buy!
And there’ll be more too in days gone coming.
Until then, see you later.
you're poetry. Truly poetry.
And a lot of you is in there
in the shouts and swirls
perhaps more than you should let out.
These are full of raw feeling. I can hear your angry howls of protest. Which is of course what makes it real poetry. I hope to goodness that you're joking about the Kalashnikovs, though...