beat down to my soles.

Taking a quick break from my paper which I am seemingly unable to write right now to type a poem in here I wrote the other day when I was really stoned. It's somewhat...I dunno. It's not very feminist, let's just say.

* * *
I feel like Jack Kerouac---
chase it away.
Stretched out contemptuous on the rug, rolling my eyes
internally at the eternal womanly chatter.
Misogyny tastes like apple pie,
wholesome w/ice cream.
vanilla bean specks.
A demand to 'write!', sipping liquor
+ pulling on scrappy fags.
I'll hang my hat wherever I damn well please,
pull those cornfed broads onto me them
bouncing their towheaded curls,
cunts yawning.
No one damn yawns when I'm taking a shot
against metal carbon keys to paper.
I feel like Kerouac button-coated on some mountain
drinking milk.
Beat it out of me
while my hands rest my hat cross my chest.
* * *