Thursday, September 5, 2013

Poem: I Built My Love A Menstrual Hut

Written after an especially long week in February, in closed quarters with a woman who, oddly enough, has failed to reply to my most recent inquiries.

I BUILT MY LOVE A MENSTRUAL HUT
By Arthur Greenleaf Holmes


I built my love a menstrual hut.
I built it out of clay.
With earthen halls and wattled walls.
I built it far away.

That I might have some solitude
When twixt her thighs she leaks.
Away, my love! Get thee to hut,
And stay you for a week.

Aye, stay awhile, till calm returns,
That I won’t have to bear
Thy grinding voice, and hissing tongue
That claws my inner ear.

For I’ve got work to do, you know,
And I can’t keep my head.
My love she bursts in tears and
Flings herself upon the bed.

And, oh, what stench, my bleeding one!
‘Tis like a stagnant fen.
It smells as if Lake Netherclam
Hath turned itself again.

The dogs have gathered at the door.
They think I’ve slain a lamb.
The vultures fix their baleful eyes
Upon her wounded clam.

They think I’m making dinner,
For the stank hangs thick and strong.
And if I had a bouillon cube,
They wouldn’t be far wrong.

So low her lips, they leave a trail
As from a pilgrim slug.
Yet must she drag her meat-flaps
‘cross my oriental rug?

With panties at her ankles ,
My love shuffles ‘cross the room.
It’s “Boo-hoo-hoo” and “Nag! Nag! Nag!”
Each time she’s on her moon.

Almighty Christ, her voice is shrill,
Like nails against a slate,
And I can’t find a quiet place
To go and masturbate.

Don’t ask her for a reach-around,
She’ll beat thee with a rock.
I s’pose I’m to apologize
Because I have a cock.

But I need sex! Yet so much blood,
Tis more than I can take.
If blood were what I wanted, hell,
I’d fuck an uncooked steak.

So out! To fling thy changing moods
And wring thine anxious hands!
Go hence to burn thy dinner, too,
And nag some other man.

Aye, hie thee to that sodden hut,
To wail without surcease.
Sweet menstrual hut! I built thee well.
At last I’ll have my peace.

--A.G.H. 1588

3 comments:

  1. this is funny but sooooo obviously modern because menstrual blood doesn't smell on cloth, only on those gross disposable products (which cause the smell, not the blood).

    who drags across the floor with their panties off? hahahahahahaha

    ReplyDelete
  2. Why did it take me so long to find these poems. Such poetry is a guiding light for life.

    ReplyDelete