Bukowski, Cash and Dylan
Whiskey, twisted cigarettes and Thai take away.
How much can fit inside a room?
Boxes, armchairs, carpets and glasses.
I count them on my fingers, weight them, bump into them.
All based in the laws of physics, - space and volume.

The sheets on which you laid upon.
The mirrors that showed you forms and figures
-forms that meant to replace emotional loss.

The lips of glasses you used to bite.
-body movements as the expression of an inner void.
Repeated patterns of disorders - food for my poetry.
The plumes of countless cigarettes,
that offered the necessary filling for my insides.

Background noise that comes from the TV
Content: Chlamydia and young people in excitement
-reality show for cowards.
Your manhood spread all over like an octopus
expanding his 8 legs.
Open legs, so that your testosterone can take some air.

A packet of cigarettes, a mobile phone, lighter and a cotton swab.
All in line: from the largest to the smallest object.
Absolute symmetry of declining placement.

I walk naked to the shower,
Winking to your manhood
While you remain
looking at me with your legs wide open.

I pass through you like a ghost
ghosts as you are.
Just like if I never existed
-just like you never existed too.

Blue skies and apple pies
Football games and guns to aim
40 hours of work and fireworks
Heteronormativity and conformity
White tranquility in the midst of police brutality
White terrorism claiming nationalism
What is the American Dream?
Shutdowns and cages and riches for ages
Fascism raises from hateful rampages
Families taken away from their own
These are a few of Trump's favorite things.
What is the American dream?
A flag always at half-mast
In preparation for the next mass shooting
Killing the poor with a minimum wage
That can't even afford rent
Mocking the people we stole this land from.
America the land of the free
Construct of the patriarchy
Thousands of dollars in medical bills
Treating our oceans like landfills.
Oh say can you see by the dawn's early light
A country so broken the end is in sight.
Capitalistic ideals that possess the rich
Destroying the poor as we're thrown in a ditch
Together we must rise above
And show Trump's cult what we're made of.

There is a dollhouse in the middle of the bedroom.
It is pink.
The dolls are sitting in the kitchen.
They drink.
They sit in silence. They drink in silence.
No clink.

Their hair is long and blonde.
The makeup on their faces is too strong.
The conversation was dead
Even before it started
They just stare at the table –
The only thing that is stable.

They are gentle, petite and nice
Are they the candy for your eyes?
Every morning they put on their mask
Which makes them reliable
The scripture on their grave will read
‘Likeable’.

One of them is pregnant
There is a baby in her belly.
She can give birth anytime if you need
A programmed life is not a crime.
Indeed! We should celebrate her capability
Of making it easier for society.

There is a dollhouse in the bedroom.
It is pink.
The dolls are sitting in the kitchen.
They drink.
What’s in the tiny cups? Some tea.
Exactly the way it should be
Because ladies are modest
They never do their best
It can be intimidating
And might reduce their chances of dating.

And little girls follow. They obey.
Nobody tells them that they can disobey.
They are captives of their homes
And they don’t even know.
Of course. It’s part of the show.
This is how the world is constructed:
Women are the pillars and men construct it.

They hold the weight of the world
Without even noticing.
Their possibilities of moving aren’t promising.
Each direction is blocked:
If they come out from under their burden,
Fewer people will be bearing the same weight.
And boy! The world will see the hate!
Men would have to step in and take responsibility
But they don’t want to acknowledge how strong gravity is.

Earthly forces keep you on the ground
And you cannot move upwards
The invisible ceiling is pushing you back
Your feet sink in the soil under the pressure.
We are in it together.

We are in it together. In the dollhouse.
In the bedroom.
Our clothes are pink.
We sit in the kitchen
And drink.
We sit in silence.
We drink in silence.
No clink.
Our makeup is strong and we know
It’s wrong but nobody mentions there is a way out of conventions.
A man pours tea into our cups.
We don’t know any other beverage
Though its quality is below average.
We were raised on a potion
Brewed with patriarchal notion.

I bought a silicone make-up sponge
To cover all the blemish
Patriarchy doesn’t cherish.
It’s fancy and squishy
The foundation’s quite wishy-washy.

STAND AND MARCH
FACE YOUR ABUSER
SHOW HIM YOUR WORTH
SPARE HIM NO PAIN
HE SPARED YOU NONE
/
MARCH BEHIND HER
SHE STANDS TALL
EMPOWERED BY SUPPORT
SHE WILL PREVAIL
THE PATRIARCHY WILL FALL
/
HIS REIGN ENDS SOON
HERS WILL SOON BEGIN
THE ERA OF THE WOMAN
HOW NEEDED IT IS NOW
SHE IS ON THE HORIZON
/
SHE IS THE HORIZON
MARCH BEHIND HER

Steeped in the tea of my mother’s womb
a weak blend of oxygen, anxiety and grief
dregs reused, until we are both
spent

Tough cut tenderized by my fathers
no brine in the house, so use brute force instead
pummelled into submission, until I
tear

Simmering in the holy water of the church
a recipe older than Salem, uses fear as its base
and shame, until I am
nothing

It’s a ******* wonder I haven’t been swallowed whole
by the big bad wolf
or despair, though I’ve come close

Time to eat the cook
and burn the recipe

It rumbles and roars
The rage I harbor in my bones
Unsung song of contention
Bitter and bilious in my mouth
Because when I tried to speak,
nobody was listening

Boundries of consent are drawn at home
And maintained before being extended
To a world where Xanthippe is a slur
Between giving up a career and giving in to a creep
There isn't much of an option

Shame is the best weapon after fear
In the arsenal of patriarchy
Ammo of choice for its sari draped agents
To keep young women in line lest they
Sprout a tongue or mind of their own

Decades of silence has fed the fire of rage
Licking and moulding my contours
Till I turn into Jael yielding pen
Refusing to be a collateral any longer, ready
To nail Sisera, with or without a Barak to celebrate