Monster Truck
Sixty seven year old strange man,
in my room.
knelt by my womb,
trying to crawl inside,
as if I am a monster truck,
and there are tools
to destroy the city,
to save some cells,
and keep me in one,
if I resist.
My sister has come,
from England,
screams,
for the future, of her green and pleasant land,
but my present is her past,
as the sixty seven year old strange man,
steers me through the streets,
and Arlene sneers at my shame,
before going back to her well heated scandals.
I am not a slut.
I am not an incubator.
I am not a slave.
I am not asleep,
but every woman,
in her proud, painful shirt,
screams,
“This is what a feminist looks like”,
without looking my way.
RECENT CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Summer Of Love
Baby Steps
Darling, Desperate, Dismal Girl
RECENT UPCOMING COLLECTION PREVIEWS
“Baby Back There” from Ours
“Window Shop” from Ours
“Beach Walk” from Ours
“The Bride Wore Blood” from Ladylike
RECENT BLOGS
Let’s Go To The Movies
An Open Letter To Miranda Larbi, In Relation To Unicorns
Thought Provoking Stories In Your Horror Movies? It’s More Likely Than You’d Think!
COME FIND ME
Twitter
Instagram
Ask Jen
Facebook
Patreon
Tumblr
