I Have A Mighty Vagina

As an active member of the local Wymyn’s Cliterature Club, I wrote this following piece for our soliloquy reading this Thursday night. But I simply can’t wait to share it with you all right now.

It is called: I Have A Mighty Vagina.

(Note: For special dramatic effect, each line should be followed by a quick whack on a bongo drum.)

Vagina! Vagina! Vagina!
There, I said it. ‘Vagina’.
Vah. Jai. Na.
Did that shock you?
Did that bother you?
Did that scare or annoy you, hmm?
I hope it did. Because it should.
It is a bold and subversive word.
It was…
For I have a vagina.
Empowerment in your face, buster.
It’s been an uphill battle for her and me.
Because the world oppresses vaginas. More than anything.
The power that flits from it is fearsome indeed.
As a womyn, no one encouraged me to vote with it.
I was mocked for having one.
Mocked by subways and garden hoses.
Mocked by periscopes and telephone poles.
Baguettes mocked me, too.
They reminded me of my “inferiority” and my “proper place”.
But today I have reconnected with my unmentionable friend.
And I now know it inside-out.
Tonight, I’ll say it without any fear. I Have A Vah Jai Na!
It smells like a Rhode Island beach at low tide.
Cottage-cheeselike discharges are nutritious, so I’ve heard.
And why should I not say these things?
Am I telling too much truth?
Might I offend some balding old phallocrat, hmm? (Pause for audience laugh.)
Too bad! My vagina is out for all to see.
Boo! Scary! Run away!
Why not cry to mommy, huh?
The big, mean vagina scared you.
Oh but wait a sec…
Mommy’s got a vagina too!

I hope you enjoyed my vagina as much as I do.

I Am A Twat

I wrote this in a fit of anger over the nomination of John Roberts as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. All is lost! The world is coming to an end! I began trembling and rocking back and forth as soon as I heard of this tragedy.

This was no mere nomination, my sisters.

This was a brazen act of violence against MY BODY!

I can hear the Gestapo coming for my birth-control pills! I’ll have to move underground. Deep into the catacombs under my floorboards. The Patriarchy will never find me there.

So in the meantime, here is my anger. Expressed in poetry, eloquent as it always is…

I Am A Twat.

I’m a hot, moist, inviting twat.
Warm, wet, inviting.
But not to you or your friends.
Even if I were single,
But I am not, for I have a boyfriend,
Which proves I’m not a man-hater, so stop saying that.
No, these nubile thighs do not wrap ’round the hips of Republicans.
You can fuck yourselves,
Or the dry twats of the self-hating misogynists who allow your tiny penis to penetrate them.
Have fun!
Um, the wounds you get from rubbing your un-lubricated dick repeatedly into your heartless, soulless woman.
Iodine is your best friend, my be-scarred friend.
I will fuck without making children day in and out.
And you will know it and you won’t be able to stop it.
Toss and turn, you mean, jealous motherfuckers.
I’m not going to be “punished” with babies.
Which makes all your efforts a failure.
Some non-procreating women escaped.
So give up now.
You’ll never catch all of us.
Give up now.
For I Am A Twat!

(PS: This poem in no way suggests that I’ve just let it slip that I regard my vagina as a form of currency with which I can induce members of the opposite sex to act in ways that favor me. Only stupid non-feminist wymmin do that, and I am clearly above the practice of using my vagina to get special treatment!)

My Twat is OUTRAGED!!

I am howling with LIVID FURY!

I spent the whole morning running-around my apartment, screaming and windmilling my arms to punch whatever came within reach. Because George “W Is For Womyn-Hater” Bush nominated some Alito dipshit to the Supreme Court. ARGHH!!

It’s official, my fellow vagina-warriors: WE NO LONGER OWN OUR OWN BODIES!

The end of womynhood as we know it is nigh!

And I must sublimate my anger the way I always do: with pussy-poetry, which I will soon submit to the local Womyn’s Cliterature Collective.

I call this one: My Twat Is OUTRAGED!

My twat roars with consternation!
Tremble before my twat, you jealous motherfucking MEN.
For my twat is unleashed!
And no, I won’t let you control me.
You won’t punish me for fucking.
I will fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fuck every day.
Fuck anyone I want.
In every room.
On every surface.
Because I CAN!
And I will not reproduce.
Just to spite ya!
In fact I might be fucking right now, you green-eyed patriarchal bastards.
Does that bother you?
Does that make you hot under the collar?
Does it make you jealous?
What do you mean it doesn’t?
Of course it does!
Because it means you can’t control MY BODY!
No, you can’t, so HAH!
I will fuck and fuck and I shall have an abortion too.
Yes, you heard me right.
I shall abort whatever grows within me.
In fact, I shall have an abortion every day!
Yes mister MAN, does that horrify you?
Mangled bits of fetuses shall sluice out of me in a raging, unstoppable torrent!
Like stewed tomatoes popping-out a cannery’s chute.
What a glorious sight that will be.
And you can’t stop the flood of chunky baby-salsa.
Not. Stop. It. Ever.
You can’t punish me for owning a twat.
Which I no longer own anymore anyway.
No, I’ll drown the world in a bloody, clotty flood from between my legs!
My twat will be the death of you, patriarchy!
For my twat is OUTRAGED!

A Haiku

Women are so strong.
There is so much strength in us.
Our sex is power!

The Universe In My Vulva

I would like to post my latest gynocentric, womyn-friendly poem which I’ve painstakingly written for the local chapter of the Wimyn’s Cliterature Collective. Reading it tomorrow night will require a bit of acting on my part but you know I simply adore performance art which shocks, titillates and surprises!

I call my latest creation: The Universe In My Vulva.

Stop looking at My Vulva, you pervert!
You’re jealous, aren’t you?
Jealous because the Universe is in My Vulva.
It beckons you.
Beckons you, I say!
That’s why you stare.
Your gaze burns a hole right through me.
Maybe I removed my jeans and panties while squatting over a mirror.
But that’s no excuse for not averting your eyes!
I know why you sneak your pathetic peeks.
You know that emptiness dwells within you.
See that empty space where your Vulva isn’t?
That’s where you soul would be.
If you had a Vulva.
Which you do not.
And you cannot hug your Inner Vulva.
That’s why you objectify me.
HEY, you got shit in your ears?
I said stop looking at This Vulva!
THIS ONE! The Vulva I’m pointing to! See it?
Stop looking at it!
What am I? Some kind of easily-pinched Hooters waitress?
Some Vulva that exists for your sick pleasure?
Is that all that I am?
You prick.
You fucking stupid drooling meathead pig.
You just don’t get it.
And you never will.
Maybe I should be grateful that you and the Penisocracy allows me to write at all?
I know that deep down, you FEAR MY VULVA!
You fear the caged energies that live within it.
Got it now, asshole?

My Body Symbolizes Oppression

As you know, I am a free-spirited poet.

The always-aggrieved ass-kicker Jen at Where the Revolution’s Gonna Begin made this particularly moving entry not long ago.

Although most so-called “normal” people might describe her post as a fever-dream of unhinged weirdness, us feminists consider such melodramatic fusions of self-pity and exhibitionism to be serenely beautiful and poignant.

I was so impressed with your heart-rending essay, Jen! You tickled my Inner Vulva in a way that few others can. Thank you for inspiring my latest pussy-poem!

I call it: My Body Symbolizes Oppression

If only cunts and tits grew on trees!
That’s what the Patriarchy™ wishes for.
But my cunt and tits come with a person attached.
And every war,
Every crime,
Every thing a male does
Is a scream of childish temper at that stubborn little fact.

“Look, she’s got tits!”
“She’s an easily-victimized slave!”
Yes, that’s what they all say… In their minds, at least.
I want to stop being so recognizably female because I want to stop being objectified.
I want to stop being so recognizably female because I’m sick of being used.
I’m sick of being seen as hypersexualized.
I’m sick of being looked at, essentially.
But I’m a hot sultry diva who needs adoration aplenty.

I looked in the mirror, saw the breasts.
Thought, “Objectified. Victim. Sexualized.”
That’s what my breasts signify.
That’s what I assume other people think when they see my breasts.
Therefore it must be true.

I thought, “Fuck, I hate these things.”
I grabbed at them,
Squished them down,
Scratched at them, trying to rip them off.
I pounded myself with my own fists,
As any sane womyn would do.

I howled in anguish at the bathroom mirror.
Plotting new ways to strap them down,
“Need Ace bandages!” I exploded.
My neighbor yelled I was “disturbing” her.
I’d better “shut my yap”, she commanded.
O tragedy! O pathos!
The Patriarchy™ had gotten to her, too.

It’s not my fault I have breasts.
While I was sleeping,
A Patriarch snuck into my room.
He glued these horrible tits on my chest
So men can laugh, stare and grope them.
As if being female isn’t already painful enough!

I hate breasts as tools of the Patriarchy™.
I hate what breasts connote.
I hate what they symbolize and signify.
Damn you Patriarchy™!
Damn you for inventing breasts!
Damn you for installing them on me!
Damn you for designing them specifically to make me miserable!

If I lacked these things on my chest,
Would I still feel the threat of rape every time I walk alone?
Every time I’m drunk?
Every time I’m high?
Every time I take a breath?
Every time I exhale?
Every time the pointy-toothed clown appears in my dreams?

This body of mine announces my vulnerability.
A gorgeous vulnerability I wear on my sleeve.
My vulnerability gets me sympathy and protection
When I advertise it loud and proud.
If I slap my oppressors for offending me, they usually won’t hit back.
Funny how that seems to work.

Before I go to bed, I lock and barricade the door.
I seal myself in a custom-built bulletproof “anti-rape-room”.
With inch-thick steel walls, it’s hard to breathe in there.
I blocked the vent so stray phalluses won’t slither in.
still feel at risk when I’m in there.
For I’ll always be the victim.
That’s what I am and little else.

That is why I protest my own body.
I protest a biology that unfairly forces womyn to have cunts- but not men.
If I was born lacking this dripping, stinky, underappreciated orifice between my legs
Would things have been better?
Would the system treat me differently?
Then I realized that the system needs changing, not me.
NEVER is it ME that needs any changing at all.
That’s why I stopped taking my meds.

To sum up:
Fuck you, Patriarchy™.
Fuck you.

This Labia Comes With Two Fists!

As a young and gorgeously-oppressed feminist writer, I find that poetry is the ideal medium in which to capture the pain which accrues to all wimmyn who struggle against our endlessly Patriarchal society. I hope that my soulful, mournful, bittersweet pussy-based balladry will give you the kind of strength that can only come with the solidarity of systyrhood. And although I’d be absolutely outraged if some man were to make any graphic remarks about my sexual organs, I’m perfectly happy to think that writing detailed sonnets about my reproductive anatomy will make the world a better place to live in somehow.

That’s why I’d like to present a short a masterwork of cliterary protest which I penned just this morning. I think you’ll enjoy it, as if my existential angst is a noteworthy and interesting thing:

This Labia Comes With Two Fists!

Better watch your ass,
And watch it good.
This labia of mine can wallop your face right-in
Because it comes with two fists attached.

I live in constant fear constantly
That oppressive Phallocrats might maul me with their fearsome, throbbing gonad.
I see what Patriarchy cooks-up in its microwave–
A steaming bowl of rape-soup!

Even now, you keep me in line behind the cosmetic counter
With your unattainable beauty standards.
Tho you fancy yourself the guardian of my beauty value
I reject fancy lip-glosses in all their forms!

I have discovered in my own body a great and free land
Far beyond what any native-enslaving man can conquer.
And does my unregulated mouth shock and offend?
I sure hope it does. You bastard.

These two fists can pummel.
Pummel knuckledraggers who objectify and objectivize and objectificate.
I sense fear in you, Patriarchy.
Cuz this labia comes with two fists!