Bloody well right

Last night, Debutaunt mentioned a site called Menstrual Poetry, and said she was afeared to click on it to see what the poems might say. If you know anything at all about me, then you know that I had to go over there posthaste so that I could revel in the delicious squickery of it all. Squickery Dickory Doc. To my eternal disappointment, there was no poetry, no monthly whimsy; instead of "that time" rhymes, I found an utterly humorless political blog about feminism. Don't misunderstand me - I'm all for being given the same opportunities as penis wielders, but I have little patience for a site where a story about a carload of men who fired a gunshot into a car full of women is equated with catcalling construction workers. Catcalling = annoying. Gunfire = deadly. See the difference? Yeah, well, the people who write for that site don't. I dared not read any more, lest I come across the word "womyn" and completely lose my barely together shit.

So there I sat, unsatisfied in my lust for verse of a completely wrong nature, feeling like I'd just bought a bitch dinner and then found her hoo-hoo sealed over with pink papier mache. (Ooooh, if the wimmyn from MP happen to see that, it's sure to raise some blood pressure, don'tcha think?) There is only one way to deal constructively with that kind of disappointment, those raised and dashed hopes: DIY.

Henceforth, I will periodically feature my own menstrual poetry here. I mean poetry inspired by menstruation, and not verse written on the wall with...well, you get the idea.

Here are my first ovulary offerings.

High-stress haiku

It's that time again:
Sugar, cramps, and cotton plugs;
Butcher knife in hand.


I'm a week early!
Damned if I didn't wreck my
First-date underwear.


Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
With a side of goddammit;
Cramps? They piss me off.