i wonder how people will ever manage
to figure out a way to take a bottle
for a shovel and dig...
channeling rage, by the only means
necessary... acting out: a peaceful silence;
others can figure-skate my eyes
into a whirl  with their hallucinogenic
carausel... i'm just fine...
                                 stinking of anger;
and believe me when i say:
      the last thing i need,
                                  is a female canvas;
when no woman inhabits
the same abode as two men,
   the two men of the abode can discuss
work...
                  work has no
hospitality in a woman's abode of
her: "work"...
                        i agree, while being a mother
and raising children,
  no man would dare speak of work
but only her children...
    but when a woman has finished
child rearing, and two men enter
her abode and speak of work...
                ah... a desert...
                        for what is there to be done?!
a pension from the already
given duties...
                   her body "*****"
my ***** are thrashing...
                           whizz whizz: to & fro...
make a priest blush,
before the choir boy, really, really
starts... shinging...
                        so woman returns,
to her childhood having supposed
raised a child to be man...
                      and if not in flesh,
then into the steppes of piling graves...
what does a woman become
after her "job" of motherhood and
child-rearing?
                        can she touch her own
shadow, and feed a soothing comf?
                     or...
                  what is woman,
         if not a man, without a question?