Aphrodite With Clothes On
I thought I was done with rage… I am not.
It stirs within me still with such rigor
and razor-sharp force coming from this way and that -
a force so charged that it has blown off the lid of the tapped-on pot.
A brainchild of a man and a picture for all to see,
I was first presented to the world on a scallop shell
fully womanised and naked with all my skin on show.
I was thrust into being a sizzling symbol, brought up from the sea.
I felt like I had just popped out of a birthday cake.
I scrapped towards the lulling tide and tried
to wear it as a blanket to cover my sagging parts,
but the wind pulled at its threads and untwined it into lakes.
They made me into the poster girl who was always up for it.
In greasy garages, above pool tables, on page three,
my body had the motors running from January until December.
As long as I came with no sound, I was every man’s perfect fit.
Then my wrinkles wore my face and my hair turned white,
my hormones needed to be supplemented
and flashes of what I wanted to say made me look dumb.
Who was I now? I looked in the mirror. I gave myself a fright.
And the men stepped in again, ready to tell me the cure
to my identity crisis and help straighten up the symbol
they use as their right-hand when the need strikes.
They said I should get some and stop being such a bore.
Get me mad once, shame on you, get me mad twice,
I am removing the safety pin from the corners of my mouth
and showing you which lips really make all the difference…
and don’t you dare try to tame the people pleaser in me by telling me I am not being nice.
