TRANSITIONING

“War is not women's history.” - Virginia Woolf   

Men do  go to war
so poltroons live a piece.
Their women (such is still the gaze)
bound by biology break their bodies giving birth.
The Fathers, occupying parturition’s orifices, call it their science:
assumptions all authorities automatically re-misrepresent.
And what are the wily words of men’s masters worth,
exactly, these days?

Menials go to work.
Proprietors prefer to price.
Women’s place has no holidays,
martyrs as much for their mystery as their mirth.
Yet this is her very essence and the potency of her sapience:
She yields and she is Power, consensual or by torment,
tall, lithe and slim-hipped or weighty, wide as earth,
Women are the relays.

Mental gods twist words
conflating passivity with peace.
Women promise what every man betrays.
Wars pause and Winters wane, and women fill the dearth.
And always find all they need is fulfilled in emptiness’s experience.
But when war is waged elsewhere as the men’s distant expedient,
She gets a civilized hearth.

 

     text by Elsie Gray Parker               copyright © Valentine’s Day 2018                                                                                        by Rachel Mantis Perrin,                                                                        all rights reserved.  

 

the                         

MULTIPLE   CUMMINGS

Spurning and burning in the widening fire,
The women cannot hear the womaniser;
Veils fall apart; the edifice cannot hold;
Pure liberty is loosed upon the world,
The Moon’s blood tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of transcendence is the crown;
The rest black their conviction, while the Whore
is full of passionate intensity.

Surely this revelation is unmanned;
Surely the Cumming in a second by her hand.
The Multiple Cummings! Hardly is that juice out
When a vast flood out of that pink hole
bathes my sight: everywhere in marketplaces of the slaves
A shape with a woman’s body and for a head a Star,
A gaze deep and infinite as the outer space,
Is moving Her muscular thighs, while all about Her
Real women in the dignity of self-possession.
The juices drip again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of lying spectres
Were vexed to nightmare by a broken bridle,
And this tough bitch, Her Truth come round at last,
gifts or sells Her favours as She will.


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