One Nation, Deconstructed

under a power structure

founded upon

prone bodies

supple curves

grappled into place

their place

the walls stand

with their stony



the power brokers

believed us broken

faulty bedrock

in the bottom line

as they gave us

the shaft

they laid the groundwork

of their own undoing

as they fondled

nuts and bolts.

we weary

of eating their dust

in the grimy substratum

so we rise

from our knees

spitting out truth

with their limp dipsticks

dislodge ourselves

from musty corners


buildings rumble


the system









proud flag-bearers

of the moral majority

hanging on tensile strength

of dubious

self-assigned superiority

curb stomp

the different

those who march

to off-key drum beats.

meanwhile, those of

corrupted meliority

diddle young girls

(they say it’s the cat with the fiddle)

under the purview

of their reeking



now who jumps

over the moon?




Who, What, Where, When


is this man

who routinely rapes

with his eyes and his words

publicly displaying those violations

proud of his assaults

who reportedly also rapes

with hands and other appendages

braggadociously brazen

of these conquests

until confronted

then lies like a cur

that teens would label pussy

bequeathing the cleanest vaginas

a rotten stench

he is the ruler of a mighty land


is the consequence

for actions reprehensible

broadcast and repeated

vulgarly degrading

women as meat

for him to masticate

or masturbate

drawing blood

violently squeamish

fearful of omnipresent life-force

of which he is devoid

he is acclaimed and rises to greater power

dissenting voices are squashed


or rise in united protests


is this place

where citizens are brutally mocked

castigated (no, not castrated-

that would be barbaric)

sorted into castes

based upon his basest instincts

as he ordained himself

judge of all female bodies

upon which he may feast

his beady lecherous eyes

vile forked tongue

or libertine whims

it is the greatest country on earth

why are those women bitching

they have it made here

it must be that time of the month


will it end –

the license

graphic and interminably unpoetic

heisted by men

holding positions of power

brandishing them as medieval maces

stiff and steely

as they fancy their penises

wreaking devastation

upon the weaker sex

it will end

when all women

are joined in warrior chorus

with right warrior brethren