Patriarchy And Poppies

Full moon and you— werewolf, wall-crawler, shapeshifter?

Mythological origin— patriarchal

Cities, chauvinistic towns?

Your cigar pipes, my

Scarred thighs— anachronistic constellation?

Gossamer masculinity hangs from hula

Hoops like wild, funny tassels.

Unbroken hymen— your house of worship?

Menstruating vagina, and smell of

Your warm semen— your choice of politics?

In front of the lecherous Gods

Of Amsterdam, I'm the

Whore or are you the pimp?

Misogynistic biblical verses— the

hamartia of your masculine birth, perhaps.

My ambitions, your handcrafted

Hunting knife— the weapon

Of crimes?

I write my poetries with the ink of

A male pseudonym.

You’re a beast that even my

Silver locket cannot chase away.

You say I'm a derivative; I was created out of

A man’s rib.

Descendants of Adam, what was wheat

But a grain? What was penis but flesh?

You’re street hawkers and peddlers

Of rapes; foeticide is your satanic monarchy.

Leather belts make artwork

On my scattered body.

Those bruised tattoos sigh—

What should I not loathe you for?