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Women make better friends, they said
Nails bite like incisors into soft, warm flesh
Women are fluid
Then I took
A man with big hands and enormous feet
Whose hair tickles parts of me
About which my Mother didn’t tell
Fingers that sing tricky tunes of love
The bee’s sting of desire
I know women
But I love a man
I am not a traitor to my sisters’ cause
Punching my fist in the face of ideological rejection
I am the projection of
Purity
Love
Truth
Merely human
Louise M. Hart
For the only man I really loved and
the alcoholic Scottish afternoons, evenings and nights…
I loved him
Like a comfort blanket
I would wrap around me
Twice a week
But the blanket
Cut
Into my flesh
Like the cheap vodka bottles
Whose contents
We projectile vomited
Against a wall
Cracked with my spidery
Web of deceit
And all to prevent us from falling
More deeply
Into reality’s slow waves
Of unreturnable sleep
Every hug
The blanket bestowed
Represented a drink
Poured down my hoary throat
As dry
As a virgin’s quim
Or a mammary gland
No natural man
Could possibly caress
And hardwired to out queer
My more masterful
Sapphic sisters
And the screaming queens
Who were my soul brother’s
Chicken licking lovers
A comfort blanket
Embroidered
With the discarded nails
He plucked
From his outrageously orange
Tinted fingers tips
As he plucked me
The shallow and demanding female
Who roughly stroked his skin
And sucked his bones
Only to please
And manipulate him
I did not even feel his nails
Prick
Me inside
Rather dismissing the blood
I shed
From my womanly empty head
To the rosy pink tips
Of my inverted toes
And MY tits
With an extravagant
Swish of the hand
Of every unwanted thought
I fought to valiantly dismiss
The kisses I imparted
Were shaped
For the delectation
Of another’s lips
For, though my heart lightened
In his presence
It burned in hers
She did not break it
It was I who reached inside
My own compliant chest
And withdrew
The essential organ
Of all hope and penetrable pleasure
At the height
Of a micro second of time
When I realised
That I could never
Love his kind, again
And thus, never did
I am indifferent to his needs
The way his body hair wounds my skin
And his straining loins that beg
To impregnate my womb
With the seeds of his desire
I am indifferent to the clothes he wears
And the way he cuts his hair
I am indifferent to his needs
And he is indifferent to mine/my mind
I am too old for love
Worn out, like last year’s aged slippers
I lament the drunken nights I spent
Within the naked reach of pleasure
Beyond the call of the mistress of misery
Whose fragile waist I clasp
Fearful of descent beneath the bellow of her underskirts
I am secure in the certainty of my own solitude
Contemptuous of the art of living
Death wishes are, but my faux pleasure
I am too old for love
But young enough to die choking on my words
Like an emasculated poet
madscribedotme 