People who know me know I am a fool,
But that I am not cruel. I am many wicked things, but I am not cruel.
I am one, I know, but scarcely the other.
But I would rather be unkind to 100 bastards
Than see a thousand million good people suffer.
If I, or my friends, are ever again raped
In body or spirit, or both,
By a feminista,
Till we cringe, cryless, hot and hurt in our dry and uncaring beds,
While the sisterhood giggles and phones their friends
For a good old chinwag
About our weakness, and the things men never did for humanity,
And how silly we are for promising to stand between a bullet and you out of loyalty,
Then my hope is this:
That each feminista will punch it, punch it, punch it up her arse,
Punch it up her arse till all her ideology and clever paperbacks and sublimated selfishness wither like dried vulva, like figs gone dry that you chuck on the compost heap.
And may they be cursed with man children
Who, like I, adore women whose hearts
Are as good as men’s, and
Have not been formed in their early years
By other demented women who say that the gene of the male is inferior.
Such women who dared to say,
As was said by a 19th-Century hero of mine,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
“We are, as a sex, infinitely superior to men.”
Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, if only I could meet you downtown, shout you a coffee, and in ten minutes rearrange your mental brain cells.
I know you are intelligent enough to chat with me.
I’ve always considered you so.
Or as Germaine Greer proudly said,
“As far as I'm concerned, men are the product of a damaged gene. They pretend to be normal but what they're doing sitting there with benign smiles on their faces is they're manufacturing sperm.”
Germaine, you are the godmother of one of my dearest mates.
But even most women now think you are a germ. Grow up.
Or as feminista goddess Andrea Dworkin wrote,
“Rape is the primary emblem of romantic love.”
Or as Erica Jong said, when she was not pontificating about Fear of Flying (like a dreaded Roman pontiff, who is almost as rich as Erica),
“I believe that women are the more spiritually advanced sex”.
How surprised must we be that two of your four husbands, Erica, worked at US military bases in Germany
Or as American divorce lawyers?
Erica, let us arm wrestle on spiritual advancement.
Oh, Erica, Erica. And for all your rampant sexism, you still have publishing contracts and, no doubt, mansions in Manhattan, Waikiki and Malibu.
I could raise a family off 3% of the interest of just one of the caretaker’s flats at one of your feminista palaces, which you bought through the propagation of sex hatred.
Well done, O oppressed one.
And still, each day, we of truth must struggle against the lies of the feministas
Until, gods and goddesses willing, the fabulous, horn-raising tits of the feminazis
Will dry up like the milkless dugs
Of ancient, uncared-for bitch dogs,
buzzing with scabies and blowflies,
like old cow pads
On the poisoned farms of humanity.
And we men will attend to them by day and by night.
While their men and baby victims
And what is right
And capable of conversation that can rise above a man’s chest,
And far more intelligent and well read
Than the chatterocracy of Murdoch’s millionaire cunt-rags,
To the achievements and soft hearts and divine dreams
And pillow-drenching losses
Of MEN – most men, who,
As the minority of the population,
were but the minority of the electors who voted
To invade Afghanistan and Iraq –
for absolutely no discernible reason but racism
And oil for the four-wheel drive cars in which
Erica and Germaine’s protegés pick their kids up from school because the wee angels mustn’t get their PRECIOUS little wings wet,
And for WHO Magazine celebrities and the Women’s Weekly,
And the female majority of voters who kill in Iraq and Afghanistan 1.3 million innocent men, woman and children …
AND MEN AND WOMEN’S BABIES.
Men who rise high above the three generations of silly, unlearned, angry – and proudly angry – harpies
Whose rhetoric floats u[on the polluted winds of truth and prejudice,
Like weed-seeds of Crofton weed and privet and lantana, which men will dig out
With sweat and blisters and blood dripping down their arms,
Without time to sit and watch Oprah, or do tummy exercises.
Men with hope that their baby boys and darling daughters might have food on their tables, and real milk to drink,
Preferably from goddess tits,
But more likely chemicals from plastic bottles that protect sad, sad, falling bosoms, fun-bags about which men no longer even contemplate without laughter and derision …
And may those new babies become strong, and true,
And never sear their hearts to wanton untruths.
And lies. And cant. And cruelty. And utter, utter, utter silliness, illogicality and straight-out bullshit.
Because we did not do this to you – not in our generation.
You did this to us.
You did this to us. And because we are men, we will use our brains and find a way to undo it.
And for all our faults, our innocence was like the soft part of an oyster shell
That a good oyster shucker knows where to strike.
And you shucked us good, real good.
Oh boy, you shucked us real good.
And in time, we shall all forgive,
Because men and women are a forgiving race, even after the truth is told.
But we have a way to go, because you are not as ready as we, methinks.
You are not as ready as we.
Sadly, you are not as ready as men.
Maybe when we are old.
(Copyright Pip Wilson and Geoffrey Chaucer, 2010)
Categories: poetry, australian-poetry, australia, feminism