Image result for a strong woman in painting

The filthy meaning of woman’s love

Ostracizes me. When I was a boy, I would see a boy, and I would shove;

But I never touched a girl—but she’s as evil as the male, maybe more,

Kissing, not kissing—provoking men to war.

The weak is what we love:

Tender. Delicate. Wayward. The cooing dove.

When you have children, you see

A girl is not really dainty.

She’s the illusion, which the illusion is permitted, as an illusion, to mock.

But nothing is soft, only moving; every single heart is shale, granite, rock.

Child mortality makes the mothers strong.

Women are practical. It’s the man who sings the heartbroken song.

The greatest strategy of the strong is to appear weak.

She will produce children, poetry—and the strong are unable to speak.

In the weak position, the offended take revenge.

Her poetry has vanished. Out of the mist, Stonehenge.

Here is the religion which washes up on the shore,

Asking for submission. And more. And more.

Tell me I am weak, because I write verse,

And I will write verses even more.

I’ll write a thousand poems. And send them off to war.






1 Comment

  1. noochinator said,

    March 5, 2017 at 12:03 am

    I thought of adopting a daughter—
    Help a princess bloom into a queen—
    But I’d want her to leave home early—
    (Although not before age thirteen).

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