With humility I face
This wonder of nature,
So much of women’s grace,
In so small a feature…
I, too, lose my mind,
When my cock is sufficiently catered to,
But for their core to be so hard to find,
Is this not wonderous to you?
‘Man, she’s got balls!’
‘She’s got some real balls!’
‘She’s got bigger balls than he does!’
Etc.
All still deemed great compliments…
Can you believe that?!
Even feminists,
Complimenting each other’s courage,
With reference to each other’s balls…
‘Why don’t Basque women wear mini-skirts?’
My hairy-legged feminist friend asked me…
‘Because then you’d see our balls!’, she said,
Smiling proudly…
Still brainwashed into seeing,
All that empty space,
In their sweet,
Welcoming crotches,
As weak blotches,
Of shame,
Cowardice,
And inferiority…
Where only big balls,
Can truly save the day
– Either physical,
Or rhetorical –
Earning that verbal badge of honor:
‘Damn, she’s got some serious brass balls!’
What in the fuckin’ universe?!
How do you still accept this?
How do you cede these core virtues,
To the patriarchy
And their testes?
You’re winning your equality,
As far as freedom,
And opportunity are concerned…
Yet you forfeit your equality,
As far as strength,
And courage are concerned…
‘Grow a pair!’ you’re told,
And you accept it laughingly,
And nod your heads knowingly…
Why would you accept this so willingly?!
Is it because of balls’ reproductive powers?
You got your own tasty flowers!
Or cause ‘balled’ men
Show more courage
Than the neutered?
Have you never been tutored,
In the wonders of your own uteruses?
Those marvelous, life-birthing universes?
Have you never seen the full birthing process?
I’ve seen it up close,
And I can tell you it ain’t close,
As to which requires more courage:
The squirting balls,
Where even the brief squirt,
Is orgasmically pleasant,
Or the nine-month slow cultivation,
Inching towards a culmination,
Of tearing flesh…
Oceanic bleeding…
And life-threatening,
Pussy-stretching,
Or,
At the very least,
Some serious C-section cutting,
And stitching,
And life-long scarring…
Which body part would you want,
As your protector,
Or general?
Balls that cum and go,
Or,
Best case scenario,
Stick around,
And watch the torture?
Or a uterus that endures it all,
And then comes back for more,
Again,
And again,
At least sometimes…
‘Man, he’s got some uterus!’
Has so much more gravitas,
In my opinion,
And a much-prettier ring,
Than, ‘Man, she’s got some big-ass balls!
Just look at ’em swing!’
Reclaim your bodies,
My dear, sweet feminists!
Relinquish nothing!
You needn’t be men,
Or have our balls,
To achieve anything!
I wouldn’t even want a woman with balls!
I want a woman with some uterus,
As my general,
My president,
My collaborator,
Lover,
Or groupie…
I don’t want your balls on my face!
– I have enough ballls for the both of us,
Believe me! –
I want your uterus on my face!
Or at least her sweet secretions,
Saying hello,
And sending her sweet regards,
From her dark,
Deep,
Courageous,
Innards…
So go on, sweet sisters,
Celebrate your uterus!
Don’t be afraid,
It won’t neuter us!
It’ll just be a bit new to us,
And re-introduce you to us,
With your newly-intimidating uteristic riches…
But you deserve it!
It’ll make you happy!
And no one gives better head,
Than happy bitches!
*For Professor P.
Vašek‘s balls from COMING SOON, Photo by Sir Tijn Po
Have you ever seen female Chinese feet,
That have been bound?
Have you seen the process?
The breaking of the bones…
The complete bending over of the toes…
The eternal pain and deformation…
The stench of decay still wafting through time and space…
And to think that many of them submitted willingly!
Proudly!
Catering completely to the male tastes they wanted to conquer…
And some even fought for their right to sport that ‘beauty’…
And then perhaps conquer…
Fought for the right to make their daughters sport that ‘beauty’…
Perhaps giving them the edge,
And helping them conquer…
Have you seen all of that yet?
That is exactly what you’ve been doing,
To your libidos…
Male and female…
For centuries…
All your moralities…
And social constructs…
Crushing gentle, filigree crystal rosebuds…
Naturally curious, delicate desires…
And needs…
So soft and tender…
Think early fetuses…
Needing care and nurture,
In order to blossom and flourish…
But being trampled on instead…
Broken, twisted and bound,
Into unsustainable
– And forever suffering –
Unnatural abominations…
And you’re all so proud of your deformations,
And mutilations,
Labeling them ‘Modesty’…
‘Chastity’…
‘Civilization’…
‘Refinement’…
‘Elegance’…
Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!
You take pride in your shattered cores?
Crushed and caged into unrecognizable,
Pitiful,
Monstrosities…
The stench running out miles ahead of you,
Warning all of us in the know:
‘Here comes an unsalvageable cripple,
Immune to all drugs and therapy,
Forever maimed and pained,
Forever reeking of,
Perverse notions of,
Beauty…
Love…
Sacrifice…
Monogamy…
Fidelity…
Celibacy…
Discretion…
This abuse must be banned!
And the already-crippled,
Given a hand!
Show them as much patience,
As your olfactories can withstand…
So many have unwrapped themselves before me,
Seeking my empathy and sympathy
– Especially in Italy,
Where their wrappings can be truly divine,
On the outside,
But inhumanely deep, cruel, and tight,
On the soul side –
And now my eyes are forever seared,
By sights no one should ever have to see…
And my soul filled with pain and stank,
That’ll never wash off of me…
Why do honey-bees sting?
And rose-thorns prick?
Why does pussy-juice stink,
And punish the generous lick?
It makes you think,
Or sing,
About contradiction’s symmetry,
Expressed beautifully in poetry –
If the poet be aware…
When into this truth you stare,
The circle becomes more appealing,
Than the grounded, pointy square…
‘Good & Evil’ lose their meaning,
Though not their feeling,
To those who are aware…
You’ll slip,
You’ll loose your grip,
But do not despair…
The ground you fear you’ll hit,
Isn’t really there…
You’ll fall right back to where you were,
Only slightly more aware…
Spread the word to the uptight,
In constant pursuit of solidity!
Show them samples of your flight,
Through Mama-Nature’s fluidity!
And don’t expect much favor-returning,
But rather some at-the-stake burning…
‘So, why bother?’ you ask,
It’s simply your natural motherly task,
To have your pussy,
Or stomach,
Ripped open,
To give way to new life,
Which was bred, fed and shapen,
By your bitter-sweet inner strife…
Our Mama’s quite strange,
But she ain’t gonna change,
And we can never ever escape her,
Nor even kill her…
So at least rejoice when you can,
And perhaps it’ll be contagious,
And highlight parts of her plan,
That our wills find advantageous…
So, here’s the end of our course,
You are now ready to graduate,
And if your soul be a poetic life-source,
You should soon begin to menstruate!
With best wishes for much luck and love,
Sir Tijn Po
‘This is my path; where is yours? For the path – that does not exist!’
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
I am not a poet of the rain,
Or any other pain,
Or even the sun,
Though I would be one,
If Nietzsche hadn’t done it over a century ago.
But I proudly do know,
How to articulate,
And celebrate,
The equality,
And unity,
Of our minds, hearts and sexes,
A notion which still perplexes,
And which I haven’t yet found,
In Dante, Blake or Pound,
Or any other,
Poetic brother,
Or sister,
(Save from several a Jazz Master…)
So here’s my task,
And all I ask,
Is that you wish me well,
Comrades in hell,
So that I not despair,
While doing my share,
Of banging out beauty –
That infamous,
Yet luscious,
Futility.
Bent poetry…
Broken,
Convoluted,
Like the beautiful,
Tortured,
Broken,
Feet,
Of,
China’s
Bound,
Broken,
Beautiful,
Women…
Perfect for times,
When people were trapped,
And broken,
By warped,
Convoluted,
Social conventions,
And delusions…
Meters and rhymes,
Unless they emerge naturally,
From time to time,
Are the torturous corsets,
Of your thoughts…
Constraining,
Warping,
Suffocating…
Think how many ideas,
Or feelings,
Were altered,
Maimed,
Neutered,
Completely reversed,
Just to fit a verse,
Of specific,
Predetermined,
Shape,
And form…
The poet not saying,
What he really wanted,
Or felt,
Or exactly as he wanted to say it,
Just in order to be able to,
Say something…
You can see this in various discarded drafts,
Including my beloved Blake,
Where contradictory notions,
Are toyed with,
Swapping places when necessary,
Just to fit an accepted flow,
Rhyme,
Or pattern…
But we are free now…
Still traumatized,
And sullied,
By millennia,
Of traumatic,
Heritage…
But free to fly,
And start the healing process,
The searching process,
The free expression,
And celebration,
Process…
And for that,
The broken,
Constricted,
Beauty,
Of meters,
Is simply insufficient…
Is contrary…
Clashes…
Like pink and orange,
Or Russian on a beach,
Or salt in Champagne,
To quote myself…
Fresh air need not be proven,
But is known,
By the lungs,
That breathe it…
And free,
Open,
Lines,
By the free,
Open,
Reader…
(Pound spoke of this,
With his,
‘Never broke a thought,
to fit a rhyme…’)
Sure there are times,
When the corseted,
Metered,
Beauty,
Is dazzling…
The beauty of the jailed bird,
With its sheer brute strength,
Taking flight,
With its entire cage,
In tow…
When even the jails of convention,
Cannot keep a sensation,
Fully imprisoned…
But then you must think,
Of its impending doom,
And crash,
And tired wings,
And troubled,
Traumatized,
Soul,
Which causes pain,
In any empathetic observer,
Especially when compared,
To free-soaring peers,
Who,
Though less-dazzling,
As far as brute strength is concerned,
Inspire,
And induce smiles,
With their light,
Free flight…
Roses can’t all be as perfect as each other,
But they’re still all pretty blood-drops,
From the same fragrant mother!
There is a place and time,
Where all things shine and rhyme,
With equal love and intensity,
Echoing nature’s sweet immensity.
Could Milton and Blake have both been right?
And what about Nietzsche’s merciless insight?
There is ever contradiction,
Amidst beauty’s endless friction.
The brilliant and beautiful,
Seem divided and measureable,
Only when the heat of passion becomes tame.
But like wax brought to a flame,
They soon give up their hierarchy,
And dance in drunken frenzy,
Ready to mingle, and consider as peer,
All that has snuck into that limitless sphere!
So indulge and stop comparing,
If you posses sufficient daring,
To see that what we experience,
Through all our art and science,
Are only hints and traces,
Of what our universe embraces!
Beyond the reach of our senses,
Exist infinite songs and dances,
Which the lucky geniuses intuit,
And then generously lead you to it.
So at least seem wise if you be not kind,
And leave your silly measuring sticks behind!
Human mathematics,
A film that crawls out,
Over every surface,
And structure,
Covering it with the slime,
Of human perception,
And measurement…
Like slugs,
Marking their turf,
Mathematicians cover all,
And conquer,
With their equations,
Axioms,
Theorems,
And (human) proofs…
‘And poetry?’ you ask.
Same shit…
Every culture has its cute little
Cops & Robbers side-show.
In some cultures the Cops usually win,
In other cultures it’s the Robbers,
And in some cultures the Cops are the Robbers.
That’s the way it’s always been,
And that’s the way it’s always gonna be,
And, thus, this little side-show,
Has ceased to interest me.
Every body that is born,
Assuming that it’s healthy,
Has the same range of limbs,
Organs,
Etc.
There is always a heart,
And spleen,
– whatever the hell that does –
And liver,
Genitals,
Skin…
Always the thinking area,
The pumping area,
The fucking area,
The shittin’ area…
And so it is in every family,
Tribe,
Nation,
And generation…
There is always the shitty thief,
The sexy slut,
The wise leader,
The wiser explorer,
The jealous revolutionary,
With the jealous masses always on his side…
The bully,
And the do-gooder,
Who loves to help the bully’s victims…
The grafitti artist and his fans,
And victims…
The promisers of the supernatural,
And their fans,
And victims…
The talkers,
The stalkers,
The gawkers…
The ratios are almost always identical…
In some,
The mind is larger,
In others its the stomache,
Or heart…
But they’re all always there,
Fighting their battles,
Pursuing their dreams,
And appetites…
Eternally jealous of each other,
Reluctantly dependent on each other,
Occasionally helping each other,
Usually stinting each other,
Intentionally,
Or indifferently…
And,
Thus,
Together,
They progress forward,
Stintedly…