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Thread: 16th Poem Of The Zookopolis: " Surrender Of The Lance"

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    16th Poem Of The Zookopolis: " Surrender Of The Lance"

    Surrender Of The Lance

    In these anathematic days
    of arena pains and excesses,
    bands of emasculated males await assessment
    - their jibs sliced by a wanton gynic:
    the new objectifying dynamic
    of emancipated curves
    confronted with awakening,
    and duly responding by swallowing whole
    the hungry scene;
    nothing too obscene
    for unbridled lips sucking hard
    on the straw, taking intoxicated talk about par
    to the bottom of the drinking cup.
    For them long accustomed to eking meals
    in proximity of dancing poles and leering eels,
    poetic justice.
    But is it?

    “Oppression!” jerk some mouths
    among the time-, space- and sex-deposed,
    most vocal: those born to attack amity,
    (How many of these speak on behalf of humanity?
    Who knows.)
    The invective flows, “Calamity!”
    It only takes a bellicose few,
    either infected with misanthropy
    or fatally tinged by androgyny,
    to create such perversion on the wings
    that the bird cannot longer be.
    Indeed, in the binge against the man extreme
    the silent man in between gets gorged,
    surrendering headless footmen in the spoils,
    wandering without direction
    from erection to erection
    on unfamiliar journeys and soils.
    Or are they?

    Punctured with inks upon the skin,
    the modern transcription of the Y-chromosome
    with chaos unpacking on the gene
    runs amok,
    holds torn pennants of gone regimes
    - remnants of antecedent victories -
    and hurls them onto the pyre
    of expired gentlemen.

    Egged on by the copious squeals
    of trollops and ladies alike, appeals
    for service men break through the design
    to render all males impotent, and the world,
    once the sanctuary of man, transforms
    into a raucous invaginarium
    stocked with much obliged obliging cocks
    and hens on demand.
    In this quintessential pink seduction,
    the reduction of the panther's role
    - once as colossal as a Manhattan tower -
    finds proportion in multiples of the inch
    and purpose in plucking flowers.

    The surrender of the lance nears completion
    with the surreal scene of nymphs
    in square suits kibbitzing about the politics of war
    on boob tubes aptly described, and eunuchs
    - more efficient than chastity belts -
    bending over wash tubs to better rub
    the stains of virility off the gown train
    before hanging it high in the noon rays
    so it'll be ready for another moonlit voyeur's ride.

    With the era of popinjays in spring-released cubes
    popping in and out and in again
    to ejaculate in the box, arrived,
    the laughter of ages sprints past all male virtues,
    past the iron will of mettle, past the justified rages,
    past the acquired wisdom of sages,
    to grab a front row seat
    in front of the accumulating ashes
    - and the heat -
    as the bonfire of alpha gentlemen
    sends smoke into darkening clouds.



    ps: Ask me what I really think about feminism.

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