Poetry

Validation!

Validation!

Wittgenstein’s Penis

There always comes the moment inevitable

As sunrise, unpredictable as the weather,

Partly cloudy and so suggestively hidden or maybe

Clear and bold and brazen and burning bright,

When up your skirt his hand

Slips, sticks, jabs, gropes, fumbles, feels

Around and around, higher, ever higher.

What’s a girl to do?  Nothing,

Relax and enjoy it, or disentangle

From his embrace but ever so

Gently, naughtily, so he’ll do it again.

Does it matter what you have on?

Absolutely!  Silly

Girl, encased in Wolford’s pantyhose enhanced

With a silk-lined Chanel skirt accentuating his

Rough, crude, muscular, callused hand, the awkward

Touch of his desire.

Prove you’re a woman, his hand demands.

He is, most men are, empiricist, logical

Positivist, penis philosopher, meaning

The only truth that can be known,

Tautological, a woman is that which embodies

Womanliness, softness that makes him hard.

The verity of materialism: nothing’s real,

Not even a pussy pudendum, unless

Unless

You can touch it.  Finger it,

Feeling the touch of it, like

Shopping for lingerie.  Never

Would I buy some underthingie without

First running it through my fingers, feeling,

Imagining the feeling, what he must feel,

The touch of a man’s hand with me in it.

A thong is a thing, and a cute thing is I in a thong.

Men want me to be their thing, to do their thing.

Yes, I’m a material girl, and I’ll open my legs,

Not, but my purse, to prove it.

See, silly man, there’s my Victoria’s Secret

Credit card, expiration 11/15, making me

An Angel, a card-carrying cunt.