Vagina Eclogue, poem cover


My boyfriend showed me his cock bib,
shit you not,
cloth hanky
tied round his rod.
He was all,
“Just cuz my dick’s hungry
don’t mean I have to get cream,
blood, and chocolate sauce
on my nutsack.”
Like it’s clean to begin with.
Gotta say I’m offended.
Gotta call foul on sartorial genital
For either sex.
While I’m on it, I’m no fan of condoms.
Who is?
Mother says, “You’re a fool’s feminist,”
and may have something,
but hell, I got the pill,
got Obamacare,
got my antibiotics
got my HIV exotics.
Bareback’s one of those things everybody practices
but only rappers preach cuz the rest of us are rabbitized.
No matter how many Trojan MTV ads advertize,
the feel sucks
for cunt and kisser alike.
In movies, TV, women against contraception
tend toward baby craziness or trepidation—
afraid of their men losing confidence
(Read: Pushing slugs. Sensitive creatures).  
That’s changing.
Can we get an AMEN
for XX chromosomes liberated enough,
educated enough,
powerful enough
to make the same mistakes as XYs
for the same delicious reasons?
And not petrified to say so—publicly?
Don’t sneeze on me, Sailor.
Don’t touch me arm, either.
Don’t tickle me cheek, don’t finger
me honey hole.
How well you know the half of me?
Who you think I am?
A woman. White. Irish. Irish American.
My words any less important if I were black,
Indian, Indian American?
German, Honduran?
A straight up guy,
all out gay,
hemale, shemale, tranny, bi?
I don’t believe half what I say.
Born again Christian (dead again).
True-to-God virgin (broken hymen).
Whateverthehell I am,
to the bowties
on yer manhood.
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