The filthy meaning of woman’s love
Ostracizes me. When I was a boy, a boy a boy could shove;
I never touched a girl—as evil as the male, maybe more,
Kissing, not kissing—provoking men to war.
The weak is what we love:
Tender. Delicate. Wayward. A cooing dove.
When you have children, you see
A girl is not really dainty.
That’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 females 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.