Response Poem: Made for Him- Christine Ray

The video for Niia’s Made for You is one of the most disturbing, provocative and mesmerizing music videos I have ever seen. I could not look away even when I wanted to.  It inspired my response poem below.

TRIGGER WARNING: This is not an easy video for rape survivors, victims of childhood sexual abuse or domestic violence— but damn did it make me think and feel.


She hangs on a hook

Suspended animation

Not considered alive

Real

Until he walks into the room

He calls her Doll

Relishes her plastic perfection

The eyes that will never cry

He caresses her once

Before brutally meeting his needs

He can unleash his beast

Without restraint or care

She is shell with no voice

She cannot protest

Complain

She longs to shower when it is over

Wash off his stink

Her bile

The others surround them

Witnesses

Trapped in horrified silence

Throats without voice boxes

Limbs limp

Eyes that cannot turn away

They wait for the next man

To size them up

And decide which one of them

Is made for him

 

Image courtesy of Pinterest

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved

Maggot Memoirs- Aurora Phoenix

maggot memories

(A response poem to the collaborative piece ‘Shoo, Fly‘ by the amazing Kindra M. Austin and Samantha Lucero, on Sudden Denouement. Be sure to read this stunning piece.)

 

I recall the apparition.

they squirmed a nauseating mess,

a poltergeist steak on the garage floor.

I puzzle on the number

of maggots that have crawled upon me.

 

I knew they were flies – in bars and in dorms rooms.

I swatted at the buzz of their egos

in Greek chorus. I was that girl

with the grades and the holey swatter.

I was that girl, brilliant and slightly awkward,

attracting flies as brilliantine

greases fashionista disasters.

I was that girl with fierce four-eyed intent

and dismal coordination, that girl

who looked in the mirror

with inverted beer goggles.

when flies buzzed habitual lies

of beauty and breaktakability

I was entangled in gossamer webs

spun of red perfumed roses,

trips to Paris and hot air

balloon rides. my flyswatter

matted in the webbing.

 

flies or not, I learned.

I learned control was a pulled down

zipper and me wriggling my way

down the bed and control

was how I wrought their finish

while I still wore my clothes

if not my dignity. I 80’s teased

my hair, not their cocks.

 

I have no doubt those flies

nestled in Aqua Net nests

leaving me their seed.

I am left maggoty

lo these many years

in the stale beer and hazy afters.

I can feel them crawling on me-

the maggots of those lost girl nights.

 

some nights I am swarmed

by the maggots that silent whisper

buzzing lies anew, across

generations of girls

Tie your hair up girls

and earn some respect.

 

I scoop the maggots from my ears

ferret them out

from dark warm mind corners.

I see now the rest of that vision

the hose pulverizing

the quivering worm morass.

it is a fire hose, now,

instrument of salvation, not a grandiose

phallic substitute –

as if, boys! –

and I loose it on the maggot

memories.


Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”