Woman, Free

The vanquished lay dead and dying,
their chorus of groans and screams
of no concern as he turned homeward,
leaving the dozens and their parts
to the biggest creatures of the night
and the teeming smallest of the day.

She welcomed him home, though
wincing at the smell of sweat and
blood and soon the cold pain of
his belt buckle digging into her.
The height of his ecstasy passed,
replaced by the old leaden weight
of his sleep needy and worn down
lightly-armored self, pinning her.

But not her right arm swinging
up and downward as lately learned,
the stiletto piercing the proper point
and he sighing his last ugly breath.
Struggling out from under,
she found the small hidden cup,
squeezing out bloody trickles
’til it was full, then poured into
his mouth, leaving its traces on
the grossly gaped chilling lips.

All would agree his death came
from a nameless deadliness
within. His weeping widow,
an innocent bystander to
one of life’s seemingly
unpleasant moments,
sensed a new, better life
in her belly and almost smiled.

Two in One

The usual form of sex change
seems more than a little strange.
Wouldn’t it be more sensible
and not at all reprehensible
to let the working part remain
and an opposite sex part gain?
When hit by the primal itch
one could choose to be
an on-top bastard
or an underneath bitch.


A kiss on the cheek
seems meek.
But below
we don’t know.