Stop or I Lop It

there should really be
some kind of
penis purgatory

for the expiation
of this appalling appendage

and its plethora
of perpetual perpetrations

imposing an impotence
permanent

for its presumed
omnipotence

propelled by a petulance
spurred by its misapprehension
of perceived deprivations
and supplantation
of its deepest paranoia
pending inconsequence
and subsequent need
for incessant placation
from people abound

i submit
that penis is synonymous
with the id of male ego

from pliable pink-tipped inadequacy

to piercing impale of pleasantries forgone

poking
and prodding
sans any apology

haplessly trodding
on that which it pleases
for self-validation
of urges capricious

a paragon
of base instant gratification

to which true compassion
opposes emphatically

no more pitching of tents
no more focal points fixed on dubious bulges
no more pencils in pockets
no more untoward questions
as to whether or not
they’re just happy to see us

no more furtive pocket pool
people can see what you’re doing there
unimpressed
and worse, terrified

no conquest-driven instantaneous detachment
metaphorically speaking
but don’t you dare think
that i won’t just detach it

no more of this daunting affront to humanity
“flaunting” the threat of barbarian legacy

no more judging scant leaflets
by filigreed covers

true power is only attained
through self-discipline
nothing is gained through tyranny
save for misery

only the weakest
feel compelled to subjugate

please cover that hideous thing up already
the neighbors will think you a despot irrelevant
vying for dominance

pitifully plying for lauding opinions
from cowed Stockholm audiences fast seeking exit

look, we all get it
you need to be worshipped

just try to remember
that nobody gives a shit

take your sexist expectations
home to your bed

ruminate long and hard
until this truth gets through to your heads

Aberrant Sundays

Sunday morning sadists
sing discordant of their greatest sin
a stinging ricochet meets copper
in leather-bound summation of insidious domain

stifling sun of sordid swelter
writhing in self-flagellation
rising welts on skin born sacred

words belie the skies afire
irony left to the gallows
sworn in blood wine
bread of flesh
and symbolic disparity

all the passion reappears
when draped in ire
trapped in painted windows
tainted scenes of glass stained tragic
framed above the haloed heathens

listless martyr ever-looming
unrelenting sting of stigma
fingers crossed in accusation
pointing toward our innate state

of human beings being human

and then to see such opulence
flaunted about so garishly
attached to hands soliciting alms
from desperate indigents in worship

shameful exploitation stretching far beyond reproach
as the spoils of their devout extortion
are soon transposed to golden thread
to sew the splitting seams of pockets brimful

dismal are the dreams fixated on barren subsistence

what is reaped are mindsets of maniacal indoctrination
self-fulfilled by fearful deluge
ethical paralysis of covert imparting
compromising our capacity to comprehend
the consequences of our actions

framing death as moral answer
sacrifice of so called “soul”
a sentence served of self-inflicting
orchestrated by a savior
intrinsically born of usurping
based on baneful male womb-envy
guiding men with egos fragile

terminally compensating
gravely vying for control
through brazen claims of self-appointing
pathological presumption

placating their perceived lacking
tactless hordes of form barbaric
storm the streets to spread their poison
pious perpetrators of a violence unprecedented

viciously conniving for a self-sought absolution
through the veil of our avowal
of their never-ending avarice

they gaily flaunt before our faces
wonted are we to submit
and worse

to serve as known accomplice

Sunday morning moral comeuppance
plundering our forlorn plight
frightful death and heaven’s scorn
adorn the good book’s turning pages

if there still remained even a shred
of our humanity
it would be the first thing

we would burn

[image credit: Frank C. Pape]

“Choices”

no woman chooses.

the word “choice”
is a quaint affectation
of male privilege

one that shifts
the burden
onto the woman’s shoulders

with a simple
single syllable
of sinister
silver-tongue

that speaks volumes
of the depraved disconnect
of daddy’s deflection

defecting

neglecting

such wretched
subjection

to misogynist mindsets
that fret
at any hint
shown to impede
its quest for glory

its aweless reverie

of his requisite bequest

that rests for no burden
not even those wrought
by its own wanton hands

with nary a thought

for the “choice”
lies with man

to own up to his deeds
to reap what was sown
beyond his own base needs

choosing not to desert
to then foster a trust
that would honor what is just

by accepting
the circumstance born
of his lust

he must stand tall supinely
to shatter all doubt
in the matters regarding
the wrath of his route

for women most oft
are forever distraught

abandoned
bereft
left exploited
with naught

whilst these men prance
with ease
frolicking fancy-free
fleeing scene
with the breeze
having sown their ill-seed

for their ego
surpasses all
with such vomitous gall
as a life is forestalled

ne’er to answer the call
so appalling this trait
leaving life in its wake
only flight will he take
once his whim has been slaked
without further adieu
in a cloud of hot dust
and a fervid salute
served most proud and abrupt
rendering hearts nonplussed
like a billowing gust
once his will has been thrust
turns militantly brusque
with such fierce flippancy
throws all under the bus
in a thunderous peal
it’s a wonder surreal
as the moment reveals
what his true heart conceals

but there is no appeal
to that which cannot feel
so this dastardly deal
is so masterfully sealed
as a bastard is reared
in a fluster of tears
with a father not there
never bothered to care
not a moment to spare
to prevent all the fears
wrought by scrutinous stares
lurid thoughts turpid lots
from a surrogate’s leer
innocence left defenseless
for reasons so senseless
a treasonous pretense
to heathens demented

still lacking incentive
to try to prevent this
fate of such portending
consequence unending
of futures surrendered
no suture could mend
ill-repute so contentious
yet still men dispute
and refute their subjection
and all for the sake
of their putrid compulsions
so duly revulsing
profanely effusive
the lives left behind
are not those
which they must live
and thus it is a shit
for which they do not give
so willing to forfeit
the world they created
but for a mere moment
of fleeting amusement
that spurns an entire
existence
so uselessly
suffered for naught
and for what
but their ego’s
egregious gestalt

Original Synthesis

perhaps none dare
to venture
beyond
the comfort

of the semen
stained illusion
that warps
their precious
window to the world

to bear
witness
to the scandal:

the

“original sin”

of woman;
creating;
mankind.