Ecce Homo

I'm outside the student union, pipping at my flute,
Trying to erect ancient song but, insofar as it is ancient,
Failing to master the working and works.

I've been expelled from the cultural center
By women who want to be women, saying,
"This is our day to be women, to wail
About our vaginas, explain
How everything different in life
Is really because we are women." Onstage

They'll cry vortexes of desire that their mothers
Were never quite the same after that day
And the snow and the brightly charred
Oven; they'll defame men or screech
Erotics of joy in a nibbling breast,
Or grip their bodies and twist
Amply and leer, "I am a sensual woman;
Look at all the pricks I've
Fucked." And they're probably right.

There's even a man who will grab his crotch:
"My vagina's a thick, six inch penis."

I don't have a vagina.
And I probably never will. I can still say
It makes it difficult for me trying to find a song,
When all these abrasive harpies are
Always angry about something.

I thought freedom was the intimate joy of being
Human, and that's all we could hope to become;
But there's always something stopping us,
Holding us back, pushing me out of the way.