Womb Harvest

It began when women plucked their wombs
from their abdomens
like choosing the fattest, juciest chicken
for slaughter
leaving us hollow and dry.

Oh tomorrow is endless,
and the children are so distraught and furious,
adults are staying indoors with canned food,
supplies of primitive survival,
awaiting the rapes and monstracities
after nightfall.

An ironic scene,
the sun is so pleasantly bright
the smell of spring and pine in the air
while I lay silently
giving in as the children rape me.

The girl scouts had knocked on the door,
I didn't see the one behind the corner,
with the recorder,
until the freckled one in front
began to lick her lips,
then they pounced.

I'm a hollow one, you see... empty,
I echo for some sort of control,
and I couldn't help but notice
how beautiful the day was
while little hips brandished sloppy strap ons
and fucking me into my brain.

I have to cry,
we quit peddling innocence the same way
we forfeited our womanhood,
folding it up in our dejected,
limp, withered wombs
and tossed them into the alley
like old, nasty rags after surgery.

The stench brough perverts
and of course, flies.

The children know everything now,
and they're looking for a better fuck,
tighter cunts
fatter asses
bigger tits
and you're royalty.
anything else,
and you're rotting meat,
useless in the eyes of babes.

(Compost Heap, 2010)