Like a living thing
(Make a sound like horse’s neigh before reading this poem.)
Horse’s cunt. Much said about vagina. NO! Much talked about vagina. Yes! To talk about the downstairs, what is it all about? Endless curiosity and nosiness. To get to know the bottom of it. To the bottom of a bottomless pit. An openly talked about but not discussed, not looked at to get to know but feel funny about. What is fear? The things you never wear, the things you wear not to be seen in. The things you do not do, not to be mistaken for something else. Viva brutality, naive cruelty. To grow up to be a man, to have characteristics of a man. A blue kite, a stolen horse let go and hear it galloping scared not seeing anything. I love a good party. Spectacle of emotions, a riot smashed not gathering the pieces.
Bushes of berries, black and red.
What cruelty to make him stay there. Idle and unhurt. That he is the only spectacle of emotions that is not allowed to show in full. It is feminine to be ruled by emotions. All of them. Not being able to control them. That within the given frames stay the same.
Tamed, stained, the same, poorly unbeatable, unbearable, but still to speak of him in different tone that of the other, incorrect, indifferent, hostile. To remove him, it is terrible to feel this way and feel inadequate, this alone and incapable of living like a living thing.