What happened to her was disgusting
But she should have better not been out in the night alone
So what it was her job, she's not a man,a girl isn't safe on these roads

And what happened to her was indeed dastardly
But why did she have to go to that area
Being in that situation was partly her fault

The boys were indeed monsters
But did see what that teen wore
Her miniskirt might have turned them on
(Oh she was in a saree,never mind,moving along)

Of course it's all the boy's fault
But does good girl drink alcohol
What was she doing partying at 11'o clock
Maybe she was friendly and her no sounded like a yes,
You know,boys will be boys afterall

What they did,they should rot in hell
But why the hell did she take a strangers' help
I guess thats what being too friendly entails

And she has my full support
But, but,she was not a very 'nice' girl ,if you know what I mean
The jobs she did,the places she went
I heard she had many boyfriends
And don't take it in the wrong way
But she sort of caused it upon her

And that's why kids
Keep company of only 'good' people
And follow our orders
If you wish not such dishonour
Always be prim and proper

I can't imagine the pain she must be in
Now who will marry a bride with lost honour
All the reputation of the family is lost,better keep this a secret,don't tell the police

It's none of her fault of course
But western values did spoil the gal

And the boys did a grievous wrong
But she could have tried not being so free
It's not a West European city

Well you know what I mean
She could have, well, tried not existing

I want to live my life effortfully.
I want to expend my energy while I have it and chase things that are meaningful if only to anyone but myself.
I want to feel in my bones that I am god. My own personal god. The voice I hear in my head, I want to know without a doubt her power.

The broiling summer

undresses the girls, all those --


beautiful giraffes.

it is one thing
to follow her into the dark

it is another thing
to borrow her fragmented words
and hold her in one hand
and a scale in another
and call it justice

but, by God
(whichever one you’d like to cite today
the kind one, the cruel one, and so on),

it is a whole different thing
to seize her by the neck
and rip the words from her throat
and twist them into cotton *****
and dip them into holy water
and force them back into her mouth
until she can no longer breathe
and no longer live and no longer exist
without drowning in a sense of helplessness
because we, the people, will always remember exactly how
you took your greed and shoved it into her mouth
and down her throat, until you stifled the cries of
‘my body, my choice’ with a book of myths and a man’s voice
weren’t you supposed to be our voice?
what was this all for? was the money so loud that
you could not hear the echoes of pro-choice?
our rage—will it be worth those thirty silver coins?

~
Desert pond,
       idle sun.

Salt, shadow,
       and the revealing light of midday.

She traipses from
the safety of the car
        to the danger at the water's edge.

One hand shielding her eyes,
the other,
        her over-exposures.

Discomfited by a lack
         of self-confidence.

Loving the water,
         hating her thighs.
~

The poet dreams romantic
of unearthly beautiful women
and he mocks the ordinary people

He's bluffing he will reveal
the women's secret
their fondest heart's desire

In the end he promises
loyalty to an old woman
whose words laugh at him

"Women want to be the boss
of their husband and their lover
not allow them a life of their own"

like in the land of Meagrebeast
where this truth is lied
by women who are jealous

and who defend their husbands
so they don't have to go to bed
with their wrong

Away with the vice

squad-patriarchy: I am --


Boss Of My Belly!

~
Imagine a box
In shadow
Of utter regalia
Iris, dressed as a waterfall
She comes scattered

Imagine an eyelid illusionist
Praying for more palettes
Enters steelbook cathedrals
To a ministry of colour

For the street outside
Cannot offer as
Interesting a hue
As those fascinating within
The pigment of her imagination

It's compelling artistry
Like oil on canvas
A slight of hand
Smoke and mirrors

Her skilled fingers
Kohl mining
For soft medley
And the new liminality
Above the spectator's eye
~

sordid scripture,
warring woman,
both menace and coquettish innocence
—barricaded.

statues,
fountains,
and restraining orders,
filling the garden:
decorations of
sunlight on a clock,
and a view into tomorrow,

revealing the "texture" of her skin
within the realm of her navel,
as soft as lace,
as smooth as
the surface of a pond.

before diving in
gives an otherworldly radiance,
her shape and smile
compared to everyday realities
are solemn in the extreme,  
the dawn threatens
to break in the east.

her voice,
(a lungfully deep, sensuous purr),
is so distinctive,
come what may,
this could be happiness:

sullen, waylaid and capricious,
her urban sexuality hidden
in the attic of revolution,
suffused with the dreamlike, hazy glow
of colored lights and tinsel.

desire is like Christmas
—it always promises
more than it delivers.