We are giddy,
witches wear fish-net stocking
and black garters
or dress up
as naughty female devils
our minds run after.
Party shops are
sexualizing fantasy
nighty gowns
and ruby
high-heeled slippers.
Halloween’s a dirty dream
for those not naturally
lechers or hookers.
What fun we shall have
when the kids are in bed
asleep from trick or treating,
hands may roam over flesh and form
stirred-up by festive drinking,
behavior far from a usual norm,
acts some may well regret
come the sober light of dawn.
She breathes honesty into the bedroom
Dispelling liars and troublemakers
Flinging lechers into the fires of hell
She takes no guff
Sure at first some thought she would go easy
Targeting her at the bar
Sidling up, expecting her to fold
Someone to take home and fondle, possibly molest
She disarms them with her light green eyes
Her lilting laugh, her pretense at being inebriated
She gives them the little girl smile
So they will take her home.
When her eyes go amber and her face goes gray
She takes their lives, trying to conquer their souls
Some wail and scream
Others go quietly, knowing they deserve it
She gives no mercy
No hope
No relief
For at one time
When she was young
None was given to her.
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY…
V
If ever I had a country
And if I were the Minister of Justice
I'd keep an open eye on covert fascist lechers
To arraign dodgers from witch sick woman's clutches
Who annul marriages the Holy See blesses
To mask her lewd tantrums in the Secret Services
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Justice
And even if I never had no country
VI
If ever I had a country
And if I were the Home Secretary
I'd make all secret files on all dignitaries
An open book on the art of rape incest or adultery
Pedophily sodomy perversity y compris
Not to mention lodge-keepers' skulduggery
That is, if ever I were the Home Secretary
And even if I never had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018
Heard it's good luck if a seagull poops on your head
Screw the good luck, should've worn a helmet instead
Nasty old peckers
Disgusting flying lechers
Gonna shoot 'em down with my bow and arrow I pledge
It’s Women’s Day and come-what-may
There’s progress we are making.
We’ve given all a wake-up call
And notice they are taking.
It’s not okay when equal pay
Is not out on the table.
Let’s overhaul the protocol
Whenever we are able.
And lechers note – your one-time gloat
Had better vanish quickly
For we won’t stand for moves unplanned;
Reactions will be prickly.
So let’s devote this day to float
A vision of a sequel
When, hand in hand, across the land,
We’re all considered equal.
Heard it's good luck if a seagull poops on your head
Screw the good luck, should have worn a helmut instead
Nasty old peckers
Disgusting flying lechers
Gonna shoot 'em down with my bow'n arrow I pledge
(One of Artemisia's paintings deals with
this story, found only in the Catholic and
Orthodox bibles. Susannah is sexually
bullied by two old men, but the young
Daniel passes by and condemns the
culprits.)
Susannah and the Elders
Legs bare, she padded to the river’s edge
to bathe her body. Slipping off her slip,
and setting free her hair, she cleared the sedge
and waded in, to take her morning dip.
Ah, lust is the dominion of the young!
The two old men who watched, provoke disgust
in us. High in the branches where they hung,
demanded sex, or else … well, such is lust!
Along the forest path, a decent youth
named Daniel chanced to pass. No fawning spaniel
when faced with elders, he. Perceived the truth.
Condemned the lechers, innocence set free.
A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honor thee!
From the ashes of despair,
embers flare into anger.
And gnawing pangs of hunger
force the soul to question sin.
No matter what you believe,
only death offers release.
And there are no exceptions
to this universal truth.
Although lechers purchase flesh:
Hypocrisy sets the price.
For lust's an expensive dish;
served with a smidgen of shame.
Intermingled in purpose;
Hope's a catalyst for faith.
And morphs into the role of
wish-giver and dream builder.
Love is undefinable,
although undeniable.
And resides in the realm of
endless possibilities.
Her chapped palms smell of
-ungrateful jasmine-
roughened by shrewd plays of world.
And in the creases of
- youthful forehead-
sleeps an orphaned childhood, old.
Among distasteful leering,
ineffectual rags of
-modesty cries-
unfortunate beauty trapped among
-lechers-
pawn broker and hawker alike.
-Nobody’s Child -
gazes high UP , at the
S
K
Y
S
C
R
A
P
E
R
S ,
elegant unreachable stairs
winding beyond clouds yonder.
S L O W L Y sighing,
At the dreams hidden, on the dark side of
half bitten moon.
Here I am, in a dark alley,
Hiding from the blind and keeping my lips,
Sealed so the deaf won’t listen,
Listen to who I am, or see who I am.
Yet here I am,
In this dark alley renting religion,
From a priest in secrecy.
In secrecy so my lips won’t burn,
From the scriptures I so wish to speak in foreign ears.
In secrecy so my body will not be torn,
And fed to the lechers who once spoke,
What I chose to speak.
Yet here I am letting my tongue dance,
Dance to the belief we all worship the same god.
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