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