Long Genitals Poems
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Three faceless Misses
amble amidst vagarious March rains
under parasols / veiled in the anonymity of death/burial
Three / shifting between tangible lives
breathless bellies barely acclimated to first-life
Brown girls who were shadows before second death
Voiceless / ambassadors of disordered paradigms moved
past dangerous minds weaponizing skin/genitals/unlikeness
criminalizing the Creator who made all things well
Unnoticed whispers/ persistently noiseless as in their lifetime
holding umbrellas humbly against the falling judgments
of the colour-blinded masses - Why rains of sticks/stones/saliva
nooses to delete tar bodies
Yet hapless muses stumbled onto canvas
into dance/parlance
where they will become unabandoned
Savage Chronos buries memories in forgetting / turning them disremembered erased
Still / Three impossible princesses forge through moss
gray haze / dark puddles
swallowing uneasily their backbreaking grief over race relations
Daily / silently pissing peppers / hoisting parapluies
raiment raking wet roads
so saturated hems won't slap ankles
Three from carnal cages flew
haunting effigies rambling
seeking their paradise visions
Above Earth’s murky ways / umbrellas rise as masted ships
sailing the slender triumvirate to Elsewhere's ardent sun
cyan skies / immaculate time
when fretful flesh is shed / purified souls will travel in light
Three ancestral sisters became memory/myth/justice
bursting through Chronos’ forgetful fog
Lifeless / yet enduring / Three whispers:
“Justice will rain where it had condemned
the God of Creation is vengeful / He alone who’d seen us in a sightless world
humanity’s cheap lenses / unprofitable paradigms beg amends.”
You see them all around these days,
braying loud on the internet,
people claiming that they’re victims,
demanding you ‘recognize’ that.
But when they explain what is wrong
biting back a laugh is quite hard,
half the things they complain of
don’t leave bruises, much less a scar.
I’m a victim because you don’t
call me demi-girl two spirit,
you won’t call me a woman when
surgeons gave me genitals the snip.
I’m a victim because I can
chose to stay home, let my man work,
take half his stuff when I get bored,
Patriarchy makes men jerks!
I’m a victim because some unknown fool
put a dark joke up on the net,
progress means thinking just like I do,
quick, call down the whole government!
I’m a victim because at work
they demand that I do the job,
my ancestors got a raw deal,
so pay me more, you racist clod!
That last part just amazes me,
thinking back upon Civil Rights,
back in the fifties and sixties,
and all that went on in that fight.
The blood, the stones, the dogs let loose,
the murderous Democrat Klan...
Did they suffer to be victims?
Hell no, but for the rights on man!
They wanted only the same chance,
be free of this nonsense of ‘race,’
now their grandkids want victimhood,
seems like quite the slap in the face.
Now why do so many want this?
Well, it seems quite easily to me,
they feel the ‘pain of victimhood’
excuses them from morality.
That because of bad part events
they don’t have to strive to be good,
they can do evil, not feel wrong,
not worry about all the ‘shoulds.’
A way to indulge without fear
of consequence awaiting them,
to make their sins look quite righteous,
to strip all restraints off of men.
So you can burn a building down,
beat people and make blood splatter,
and not have to feel bad for it,
since after all, Black Lives Matter.
And you can ruin livelihoods,
put whole families out of the street,
since, “They didn’t use my pronouns!”
Not care they can no longer eat.
You can walk through the capital
and never be locked up in jail,
but if the other side does it
then somehow that’s beyond the pale!
And while this may explain their choice,
there’s nothing that can excuse it,
If you want to be a victim
you’re really just a piece of sh-t.
Dark women and their softly lit shadows
haunt our days.
Men who dwell upon form and beauty,
are attracted to moths,
they grow too old, too fast,
their erotic minds
like over-sharpened pencils,
wear-down too soon.
Women who follow men
seeking the dangerous comfort
of strange desires,
blossom, then disappear into suburbia,
where they grow their fingernails,
de-claw their hungers
watching shopping channels.
Are we not all a portion,
and smatter of both these
gender frailties?
We live avoiding
the genitals of angels and demons,
yet the anatomic ****
of the over-sugared,
and unleavened breads,
grow ever stronger
in our backroom eyes.
though thine wife gladly
(and long time ago)
verily swept passed
her final child bearing year
this house broken husband
genuinely hankers to father
(yes sire re:to set sea men
"NOT FAKE," nor NONGMO
free and reduced)
and longingly participate
in parenthood again
donning baby proof couture wear
analogous (as aye imagine dragons
fire breathing worth tolerating),
those who fervently veer
yearning to undergo
sex reassignment surgery (SRS)
with unintentional surgeon's delicate tear
aye thru thoroughly anesthetized flesh,
(especially genitals under going
transformational substantial removal
via said - bravely bite ting the bullet -
sharp pinching shear)
contemplating, formulating, issuing
personal specifications to cutting crew
validating, testifying recapping re: questing
genitals do not reappear
since significant surgery purport, some hetero
sexual person might coon sitter *****
yet no doubt a homosexual
and/or lesbian would ap pear
to understand completely if he/she
didst unwittingly accidentally overhear
confidential conversation,
yet warmly reassured the speaker,
they did not intend to get near
enough to glean enough information
that said transexual could reduce wardrobe
with women and/or menswear
and this once distraught,
distressed, and distributed
without willingness unfairly
fated to live stemmed,
undoubtedly wrought from sexual misalignment,
would post surgery
hover off the ground and modestly
swagger off into the sunset
(this scenario projection strictly of mine)
anyway he/she could map out in one direction
destiny describing,
an upswinging trajectory linear
once future freed where gender now nsync
???????
with physical gonadal accouterment
unconcerned if urge arises
to swivel derriere with flare.
-------------------------------------
duyeer93
st
america
online
dot
com
matthew scott
highland manor apartments
schwenksville, pennsylvania
19473
USA
Cave wall shadows.
Plato warned us.
Like Prince Prospero’s Abbey.
A cyber-dominion of masquerades.
Anonymity is a collective loneliness.
Electronic patches and flickers that we create.
The naked selfies exposing our genitals.
Neon carnival signage of our disposable selves.
White nationalists and conspiracy theorists.
They savor a bloodthirsty authority to incite.
Nameless silhouettes that sway against the wall.
These figments were once billed as democracy.
Like oil, an indiscriminate flood of marketplace ideas.
But we are still constrained by cave chains.
We are children of apparitions and appearances.
We prefer the dimness of our dreams to the brilliance above us.
We believe our enslavement is safety.
Our narcotic electronic contours are our engagement, our toy selves.
Our faces stare hypnotic at cellphones, our glitter boxes.
Our façades on laptops convince us of who we are.
We enter new chatrooms, new social networks like drunks.
We think we know who we are in our costumes.
We think we know our friends, lovers and enemies.
But there is great danger in the endless party.
The peril of the red death awaits us behind our masques.
Published Tuck Magazine 04/2019.
The parents whose 12-year-old son was just laid to rest
From spraying bullets exploding in his young body’s chest
The father whose daughter was tortured and raped
By monsters initiating in a criminal gang
She will never see her fourteenth birthday
The shopkeeper, who after taxes is barely making his life’s wage
And totally depends on the paltry money his hard work can make
The mother of five beautiful children who went out
For a routine run on a beautiful sunny day,
But will never return to their waiting arms;
All their lives shattered in a heinous and brutal way.
The military veteran who lost his legs, as he served us all in a made-up war
Now sleeps on the concrete in a filthy corner of San Francisco Bay
The innocent 2nd grader, a tiny blonde blue-eyed girl,
Is left confused and unsure
When her trusted teacher says she’s a racist
Who has destroyed the world
The toddler sitting on his mother’s lap who looks on in dismay
As a mustached man, dressed as a woman in exaggerated makeup
Gyrates and sings vulgar songs just inches from his unprotected face
The girls soccer team whose teammate lost half of her face
Refuses to compete with transgender men whose genitals are now misplaced
The Texas rancher whose family must clean up behind
The millions of crossings in a continuous unending line
Of criminal invaders whose tons of trash and broken bodies are scattered
Among his unproductive fields and livestock in rotting tatters
The aching backs of hard-working taxpayers whose treasure
Has been looted and their protesting voices silenced;
For four years they had no say where their money goes.
It’s now enriching Iran, Ukraine and who else, nobody knows.
Nearly a half million young children lost their innocence,
And many their lives, sold into slavery in factories
And as sexual slaves; Grievous Evil modeling the Chinese way
Nearly 80 million Americans, sick to death of insanity, evil and deceit
All rose together to fight the rancid leftist coastal elites.
Together extinguishing the rule of disloyal leaders, fascists, racists,
Their eyes shining with hope that there can now be an end.
Each one’s voice and vote counted this time as they shouted,
“President Donald J Trump will fix it and make America great again!”
there are places i will never see
there are places i would like to be
there are attractions that i would like to view
then there is the main attraction, which is you
i remember sleeping under the noise
i remember waking up with mosquito bites and ticks on my genitals
i remember snot and tears turning to ice on my face
i remember laying my head against your heart, the warmest of any place
confusion left me at a standstill while still moving
confusion righted me with two left feet while still grooving
confusion created mirages in the dry desert of life
confusion lead me to you, the foundation that helped overcome all struggle and strife
When you watch how astonishingly the world moves on
From the fall of one iroko to the other,
How, one minute, eyes fill up
Like an overflowing river,
Then the next, mouths that stood agape,
As if to swallow death for swallowing their hero,
Drown in strong liquor,
Does it remind you of the vainness of striving?
When you look at him there in the box,
Still, in coats he cannot feel,
Nostrils an invitation to flies,
Do you see the essence of this hustling?
That a man who was made without permission to be made,
Who came into this world out of the merriment of two genitals,
Spent his breath chasing emptiness?
If the purpose of living is to die, // why celebrate the birthing of a death?
My mother roasts the plantains and dips each finger in oil.
I watch her joy as she passes it round, the celebration of a newborn,
Ya Ya Nkem eh, Ya Ya Nkem!
Ya Ya Nkem eh, Ya Ya Nkem!
Waists twirl through the compound,
An orchestra of loud voices.
The old man steps in, his kettle,
Carrying more prayers than wine,
“You shall wipe our tears and lead us well,
Cross the oceans we could never dare to;
Lord, hear us!”
Last week, Awung and Alem were lowered,
And in a day or a week,
A dirge will outdo these songs of delight,
For a new grave is born!
T’will be his death of this he's sure
But for this sin there is no cure
All John did was to stand on guard
Now his family name forever marred.
As a child trained in the Protestant faith
Too late he had now seen his wraith
Converted to Catholicism and fervent too
Knowing never more to see morning dew
He trembled, weak and so close to death
Afraid now to take his known last breath
His bowels loose his spirit lost
Forehead bowed, fingers crossed.
He could almost feel the horse and rope
But knowing he now had no hope
Confessed he did as Guido Fawkes
These step were to be the last he walks
His genitals cut and then to be roasted
Bowels and heart, next to be toasted
‘John’ then ‘Guido’ now known as Guy
Did not want this way to die
Through accident or was it his plan
He climbed the ladder with his hangman
Did he jump or was it a mistake
As he fell and his own neck did break
The legacy for this man Guy
An effigy to be strung up high
Set on fire every November fifth
With explosive fireworks lit forthwith
No child he left to bear his name
But Guy Fawkes still hangs onto fame
To blow King James of Scotland high
For this act of treason thirteen did die
© GG 3/12/2013
Contest Entry: Happy Holiday
Wraith …own ghost.
Fornicator you believe in abortion
Adulterer you believe in abortion
Rapist do you believe in abortio
Father God has kissed your nose your lips blew his life essence
Into your tiny chest He created you
Instantly for it takes God man and a woman to create a human being
Always
Always it's a choice
Yet you believe that at certain trimester life
Isn't life but it only takes an instant
To create
a spark the breath of air from God's own light
Let's get it right
Who are you to kill a life
If you don't want a child women keep your legs closed pants up and dress down
Men keep your genitals to yourself
4/1/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021