Migraine and the Femanist

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A migraine to a femanist
On a Wednesday morning speaks
In that five minutes, undecided,
Between light and sleep. She murmurs
A swear word. Recoils and sleeps.

On her face, a stud, chauvinism
Unfolds; dictates: “A ticket, please, a ticket
For Bauddhayo Api“. Turn a blind eye,
An ear; act dumb and see him through. Blind,
Dumb and dazed he sees through you.

Poolside, the DJ shakes where silhouettes
On water shudder. Moonlight
Strategically tricks the sparkle of the glass.
You insist him bondage as a submission,
And that you hate it up your arse.

“Your name please, ma’m?” follows the flasher,
You unfreeze and give him yours.
You hear: “Sir, I’m from the Society Mag. A picture?”
Ring back as you clear away. Theory
of light near-concludes the day.

The bread on the butter that on bread
Was laid, spreads oozed where your frontal
Teeth breaks bit by bit as, with coffee,
And an Austen you sit a sight to fond birds.
And that is it.



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