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( I have mentioned previously that I have written in this style before. The genre is known as " feminine ecriture " It is a body conscious form of political writing. I also borrowed heavily from the surrealist style as well. )
We are a chronic chirotony
of dexter,and sinister speak;
fingertips dipped, stained
in the dying days of still, and moving expressions.
Write upon the souls of men,
powerfully, and divine.
Never confess to anyone your sin.
Declare, "They are mine !"
Walk along the forearm of our strengths,
and decipher the blue scribblings.
Your weaknesses washed out letters,
misinterpreting the text.
Woman reads only as Womb,
to you...
Venter scrolls through thin parchment
of membrane, just to be written in bones.
We are a compulsive aperture
of clefted lyrics. Language
screams and dreams, reborn
from the water of our dialect.
It is Our Christ, Our Buddha.
Because no one , NO ONE
bears these translations,
this unique stigmata except we.
Be not only Eve, lady womb.
Look also to Lilith,and Jezebel.
Revive men from the tomb,
only to describe to them their Hell.
Turn the thigh, like a page.
Crowley is recorded there,
where "Leah" mothers uteri,
and Shakespeare's "Stage"
is a vagina; a stolen work
in handwritten script,
a glyph on torn skin.
Canthus', once blurry, and wet
are dry,and angry now.
Because someone closed our Bible,
leaving nothing to learn,
but unending bearded dogma.
We are a possessed palate,
roofed in the bone - hard.
Ejaculating sentences, we dare
you to cover this mouth.
Our lust was the author of the Causeway.
The Henge’s, book-price for our sighs.
Red bulls are the effect you paid,
just to proof the novel of our eyes.
And the hands, the hands extend
outward, and upward, muscled
along the tap tap steps of Heaven,
where God exposes the female sex, bellowing
" Take note, write it down ! "
and we do ...naked, and unashamed.
Every word is nailed,
edged with our palms.
Menorrhea is a burning spear,
dipped in the adjective of cold shame.
We will erase your liquid pronouns
from flesh's font, and impale a different brand.
Female... Found... Fire ...
We are a surviving epidermis
of biography,a bind of taut.
And you will no longer
hide that upon your shelf.
Breasts are printed bold.
Study them with the respect of a student.
They are not pretty icons
for you to thumb through.
We will ledger your heart upon our hip,
and let it cipher for that place,
as we edit the tip of it,
and read the look upon your face.
Footnote this anatomy if you can,
this catechism of holy-tongued religion.
I tell you , " You never will !"
Unless you are a woman ...
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Originally Posted by iDrew
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