56-year-old women are blast furnaces

they can never wear wool again


so I've been instructed

so I won't make a coarse remark again


oh you can never understand!

that's right...empathy won't do...


you burn in a hot flash as if

it were vindication of your  crone-hood


oh such demands our minus sides make

that pluses seek the randy comradeship


of gangily pigeon toed obasiance

to the fresh sweet power of a sister-sweat


and touch on skin smooth

as leather on the seat


oh we menses will our crude git-er-done power surges

lost awkward and rattled in reflection


considering the invisible chain

that binds us to her wrist


rule by divine right of cunt

and we asswipes with pubs dangling


rage in our subjugation

and wimper on the comfortable breast...


and at 56...oh MOM...lay it out

your daughters have yet to learn


and so do their dumb young stags

the nonsense never ends...the sideshow


or hotel room or quiet mounted bed

has been known to douse many fires...(you figure how...)




Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.