Proud fathers of progress, eagerly name their successes strong manly names like:

     George or Honest John.

     Joe or Tsar Bomba.

     Red Beard or Fat Man.

 

“Our sons will pierce the sky and deliver peace,” their shouts ring in the ears of any who dare question the creation of this phallic emancipation.

 

The patriarchs preach science from their pulpits constructed of:

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Blow me up

Blast me against the wall

Burst me with bombs and guns into a thousand pieces

Shoot me down dead

With bullets to the head

And while my blood runs into the sand

Just think for a moment

That you could have shook my hand

Said hello

Fired words at me

Instead of bombs.

You could have screamed at me if you wanted,

Shouted, screeched and yelled.

You could...

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from my new poem book WOW! TATTOO MY BUTT read live in ring of bells, midd, june 2013   Library Girl

She worked in the local library part time.

And liked to read Harry Potter books.

She liked a lad who popped in fortnightly.

He was quiet just like her.

Her eyes sought him out whenever he was there.

A shyness inhibited her asking him out.

In time he stopped go...

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