Issue 17: Jane Goldman

if ma hillybilly (358,000,000 results) is a feminist
                                              i don’t want to be a feminist    

st salome in her study finds sympathies

almost entirely now with clytemnestra

our sisters maenadistas our rosy

gorgonistas our daughters listen please do

listen we need to talk about ma

anna blume ma is not rosa luxembourg

ma is not mary wollstonecraft ma

is not angela davis ma is not

simone de beauvoir ma is not

julia kristeva ma is not

camille paglia ma is not

emma goldman ma is not

hélène cixous ma is not

johari osayi idusuyi ma is not

ma hillbilly has unsexed herself

on foundation wads of salaries played

by sadly rabid and the guitarists ma

for two hundred grand a minute unleashed

the sadly rabid hard cheese disks ma

a shears-mammal of sorts tick-tock

sliced out the succulent labia cut out

the quick of a freaked nation like a slit cork

as any last duchess would say if everywhere eyes could speak

meanwhile euphoric ma through dripping severed

veins direct to camera ma says tick-tock look

we came we saw he died tick-tock venomous

ecce venimus vidimus periit tick-tock as if under

impartial surgical gaze a glistening ruby glans

just withers or serenely sheds her juicy fibro-vascular cap

slips off that very spot of joy a gadfly leaping from her own creaming

corpora cavernosa or solemnly submits to the rule of sadly rabid pa the slit

of ma’s blade without agony without a struggle

do not spit this gristle milk for thieving metaphor

thinking to distance its orientalism knowing fine the slit

was the home cure of pioneer shrinks for hysterical

psychosis or psychotic hysteria and the swivel-eyed snivel

as shagpoke whipple enters the tent (a sluggardly

buzzard that did veer its keel at my windscreen today

its full speckled beige span idled back to a glancing clip

is no portent of the whipple) is no excuse

so ma’s over-stuffed shriveled out vaginiferous

boiled felt fawn suit so nicely buttoned at the wrist

can brag of having sat there in the driver’s seat

for the full thirty-eight minutes (or a cool seven point six

million dollars for sadly rabid and the guitarists) in the situation room

in intense honour or honour simulation (so very ma)

since that’s what to ma honour looks like where even

the very subtitles of the inevitable and irrefutable

indicting documentary that so soon ensues are

spelling out ma’s proud role a smooth lubricated

cock in the establishment military machine

talking doll-baby in a boiled fawn felt baby-suit

our sisters maenadistas our rosy

gorgonistas our daughters listen please do

she waits until her new mom caresses her

the more your little one talks to baby the more

words and phrases she will learn and repeat

ma’s example ma role-model ma mentor tick-tock

look we came we saw he died tick-tock

if ma hillybilly (358,000,000 results) is a feminist

                            i don’t want to be a feminist


(8 November 2016)

Jane Goldman is Reader in English Literature at Glasgow University and likes anything a word can do. Her poems have been published in the magazines Scree, Tender, and Gutter, and elsewhere. Her first slim volume is Border Thoughts (Leamington Books, 2014), “a little theatrical box of spectacle and light […] the living underworld of Brecht’s Threepenny Opera translated into raucous girlish post-war wayward ways” (Lisa Jeschke, Hix Eros 6).

Copyright © 2016 by Jane Goldman, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.