sing! sing girl, my precious!
but don't watch too many
movies.

islamabad bound
i'll tell you:
when a woman watches
the clash of titans*
and remarks:
men, in those days,
esp. when the arrow
shot through their body,
and they managed to remove it...
and grow a beard...

and they are men who should
be named, but aren't,
they are worth the excavation
beyond the bore of history,
and the artefacts of archeology...

mind you the freudian
ostrich - a limp ****
and the "fear" of castration,
mind you that...

    i'm apprehensive of something else...
these women? who watch historical
movies as say: these men,
who could summon these pains
without a flinch...
summons the same reply...
who, are, these, women?
the women of today?
   who are they, if they can't cook?
who are these english birds
walking into a supermarket dressed
in hidden-ware of pyjamas,
with hair on show that might
make a horse's mane blush?
they watch these movies and ask where
those sort of men are gone,
i watch these movies, and think:
where are the women... that made
these kind of men? well...
also gone... you ask where such sort
of men are gone,
i'll ask the same question:
where the women, who might produce
such sort of men?
      missing? displaced?
               i've forgotten my wallet types?
my excuse is time and change of place,
but you with your "nostalgia"
just begs the asking:
why expect the same kind of man,
when as a woman,
you carved into the surface a different
kind of man...
  why ask for the same man,
when the men seeking the same kind of
woman, found nothing,
            but a statue of salt!
what sort of man might have to perpetuate
his primeval brutality,
when asked by a woman:
  what shade of curtains, honey?
you don't keep a petted monkey in the same
cage as a wild gorilla caught yesterday,
and caged today with the petted monkey...
unless you want a shortcut to a shish-kebab
ripped apart...
       women are annoying when looking
at cinematic representations of past history,
they immediately castrate (even if
in the poetic sense) -
i can't imagine why the men don't ask
the same question:
   where are the sort of women that
might have made us into your lounge ideal?
you aren't the sort of women
that made the sort of men you idealise, real...
you aren't the sort of women
that made the sort of men you idealise, real...
you aren't the sort of women
that made the sort of men you idealise, real...
you aren't the sort of women
that made the sort of men you idealise, real...
you aren't the sort of women
that made the sort of men you idealise, real...
i can go on...
      but i won't...
         you either have us, or a fantasy...
the current trend of feminine partnering is anything
but the most obscure,
the most unsatisfactory...
          can't be bothered by being sloppy
seconds of an elvis harem...
      honest to god, i'd rather own a dog:
at least i'll know when to anticipate
a bark...
   so much for your historical dramas,
and men of the past...
     women of the present are not really
worth that much;
i'll settle for the certainty of a yawn.