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When oppression shoves some into
the abyss, when death keeps being
shy asking for another kiss,
when the woman by the well
dies from a patriarchal fist,
if some are still awaiting that
freedom hidden in plain sight
in no sight of some mist, knit
me the glitch, find me some
cement to strengthen the crack
in the midst of the peace,
as the rivers flow her tears glow,
as the bridges fall her womb
molds another form, when her
tears fall another tree in a silent
forest is gone, a broken bone,
a shivering and trembling child
in the corner, liquor bottles and
slaps that switched off the eye,
when a thigh is tattooed with a
million scars, when another bar
is filled with whispers and palms
filled with bloody pasts, another
victim buried in the yard, no
honour just another open mouth
and open dead eyes filled with
dust, one gone for the quenching
of lust, another gone for an ego
that bursts, hurt by that palm,
by that notion of the male need
to be monarch, babies, daughters and
sons, a difficult frame of mind
to analyze, decide for this young
man sitting by the edge of
the dark, watching and whistling
to his wishful thinking, is it all
pitiful to be alive; the fear that
one lives to engrave inside her
mindframe, who is to tame the
lost sheep, following a heritage of
staged honour and respect, the
aspect of trying to embrace the
former when the latter has always
been the former, where does that
leave the young woman traumatized,
the ones with emotions neutralized,
when pain has always been part
of her horrific past, the molesting
fathers, the uncles, the brothers,
where does it stop, where does
it truly leave hope, the anger,
the emotional and mental commotion,
what is truth; should they hold onto
your hypocritical notions when
campus politicians demand intercourse
from homeless freshman; then preach
feminism when another day forms.

Clothe another soul with innocence
and long clothes and hence
they keep vanishing more and more,
this darkness is not embedded
in form, but in the ideals, the thoughts
and the cultural norms,
it’s all a deadly phase where mortals
mourn and forget how it once
felt to be within someone’s safe paws,
now it’s all claws, roles of man switched
with those of daemons, sticks and
stones, stone the pervert with
loosened family bonds, secrecy
keeping them whole, yet the victim
feels the loss, where dignity
has lost the host, what of the
young girl, the one counting pearls,
will she know her beauty, her worth,
her make; with cruelty ripping all
that from her, patience at times
loses its waiting time, the list is
endless, all these have transitioned
from being crimes to moments of
silence with no justice in sight,
insight and more demise, dead
and more and more dead and more
dead and more dead and more
dead bodies built into tombs
made from torn uterus walls,
another ovary pops, another
one’s anger is seen as overeacting, another
compares catastrophe with that of the
males with stab wounds, ignorance
is dire, nothing blissful to astound,
now daughter leaves home with a clean
blouse just to flee back with blood
dripping down her skirt, the screeching
reality drilling into the father’s ear,
the reality is dark, some find it
normal and the entirety of truth
is in the culture that is worshipped,
culture is a warship especially when
it grants weapons to one and grants
none to the other.

Play me a destructive violin,
bend my spleen backwards,
maybe I’ll be slingshot into the
cosmos and I shall find the
freeing truths, not these filled
with ruth, can one come into a
truce with a brute, ask the sun
to scotch and melt bones till
they melt out of the flesh’s pores,
poke holes into scrotums with
a bamboo logs, the pain is raw,
aye, the tears are plenty, but
the rage is hot enough to steam out
the blood and the water in this
body of heavy flows, aye, her
heavy flows, and let her explode
towards the patriarchal flaws,
the daunting haunting sight
of a disgusting mind leaving
gore in its wake, bake me a furnace,
a terrace where these beasts battle
with hellhounds that house
divine rabies, then twist and turn
their pelvis… Grant the beast
no plaintiff, but rather an eternity
of grief and bereavement.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Zdzislaw Beksiñski

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2020 All Rights Reserved ©

A Little Further Yet

Gender-Based Violence…

Embedded in cultural norms and tolerated most.

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