Alicia Powe vs. Semi-informed Felines

Hey you! In the vagina-hat,
frumpy feminist dressed in pink;
we men (what do you make of that)
would love to know just what you think.

We’ve heard of “ass-hats”, anyway.
But we can see the other side:
it’s orificial bombs away
as bridegrooms now behold the bride.

Gynecology on parade:
how weird. You think it makes your point?
It’s more a vaginal charade,
and promises to disappoint.

You say your cap evokes your pussy;
feline foolishness, I say.
It’s cat in bag when fems get fussy
showing patriarchs the way.

FULL POEM and more Mansplaining HERE

Another Prize for Ms. Steinem

Margaret Sanger Enters into Hell

A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto

as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology

cutting to fragments. A heartless astrology

(more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true, though).

Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance

Concupiscent consequence, lust’s bitter fruit –

oh the thought: changing Sin into mere inconvenience…

Margaret sang her seductive refrain

about weeding the garden and progress and light.

Her own sex ought to view her with scornful disdain

but instead have adopted her murderous rite.

With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics

(as if she had never herself been a fetus),

condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics

while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us.

Suppressing the lives she would flush down the drain

she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain.

As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side)

Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy

singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide

calling the shots for the coming sick century

Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races

her zeal was empowered by murderous graces.

She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction:

“dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy”

“viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction”

Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy;

words that turn Life into mere reproduction.

She enters the realms of the damned and the motherless

roundly condemned by her feminine otherness.

Man’s first protection: the God-given womb

which no infant should have to regard as their tomb.

Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her

as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her.

Long may she burn with the medical cynics

this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics.

Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen

and the profits swell big with each nubile teen…

yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen.

I send her this song as a funeral wreath

and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there:

“To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death

from the souls of the  infants you slew on the earth.

May your torment increase with the children you bear.”