This is the poem to say “Write poems, women” because I want to
read them, because for too long, we have had mostly men’s lives
or men’s imaginations wandering through
our lives, because even the women’s lives we have details of
come through a male approval desire filter which diffuses
imagination, that most free part of ourselves.
One friend is so caught on the male-approval-desire hook she
can’t even write a letter. Ink on paper would be clear
evidence of failure to be Sylvia
Plath or Doris Lessing, or (in secret) William Butler Years,
Hilda Dolittle, the poet who hid behind “H.D.”, splashed
herself with ink just before writing to make her
feel free, indifferent toward the mere means of writing.

I would take
ink baths if I’d be splashed free of male approval desire.
This male-approval-desire filter and its
attached hook, abbreviated M-A-D filter and hook,
have driven many women mad, could drive me mad, won’t because
I see all the other women fighting the M
Male A Approval D Desire, and I clench my fists to hold
their hands, and I am not as alone as my grandmother
was who painted, was free and talented and
who for some M-A-D reason married, had kids, went mad and
stopped finishing her paintings at thirty-five.
M-A-D is the filter through which we’re pressed to see ourselves—
if we don’t, we won’t get published, sold, or exhibited—
I blame none of us for not challenging it
except not challenging it may drive us mad. It is present
in the bravest of us. It comes out in strange shapes, escapes
like air through the tiniest hole in the strongest
woman’s self. It is a slaughterhouse waiting for the calf
or lamb-sized art, for the sausage-ready little pig poems
which never get to the supermarket: They
are lost in the shuffle, or buried as ladies’ poems have been
in bureau drawers for years. Male Approval Desire is a cog
in the Art Delivery Machine: It instructs
by quiet magic women to sing proper pliant tunes for
father, lover, piper who says he has the secret, but
wants ours; it teaches us to wear cloaks labeled
Guinevere, become damsels, objects in men’s power joustings
like her; lets us shimmer, disappear, promise to rise like a
Lady of the Lake, but we drown—real, not phantom.
The Art Delivery Machine is ninety-nine and forty-
four hundredths percent pure male sensibility, part of
a money system ninety-nine and forty
four hundredths percent pure white-male-power-structure

controlled. So
you may wonder why I write this poem and say “Write your own poems,
women!” Won’t we be crushed trying? No. We have more 
now, fifty-six hundredths percent of the Art Delivery
Machine. We can’t be stopped. So I write this polemic I 
call a poem, say “Write poems, women.” I want to
read them. I have seen you watching, holding on and

watching, but
I see your lips moving. You have stories to tell, strong stories:
I want to hear your minds as well as hold your hands.

I want a red dress. 
I want it flimsy and cheap, 
I want it too tight, I want to wear it 
until someone tears it off me. 
I want it sleeveless and backless, 
this dress, so no one has to guess 
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store 
with all those keys glittering in the window, 
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old 
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers 
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly, 
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders. 
I want to walk like I’m the only 
woman on earth and I can have my pick. 
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm 
your worst fears about me, 
to show you how little I care about you 
or anything except what 
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment 
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body 
to carry me into this world, through 
the birth-cries and the love-cries too, 
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin, 
it’ll be the goddamned 
dress they bury me in.

knittingandshit:

“Although most boys figure out how to bring themselves to orgasm by age thirteen, half of girls don’t have their first orgasms until their late teens, twenties, or beyond. Teenage girls widely agree that they get the message loud and clear that masturbation is something boys do, but girls don’t, can’t, or shouldn’t. The cultural focus on intercourse tells young women to expect they’ll begin to experience sexual pleasure once they have sex with a man (whether or not they’re even interested in sex with men). Nearly all teen boys, on the other hand, experience sexual pleasure long before they get their hands—or other body parts—into a partner’s pants. Despite the massive advances in women’s equality, young women’s sexuality is stuck in a surprising paradox. Young women are sold provocative clothes but aren’t taught where to find their own clitoris. Many girls give their boyfriends oral sex, but are too uncomfortable with their own bodies to allow the guys to return the favor. It’s still a radical act to say that women need and deserve access to information about their own sexual pleasure—not just about the risks and negative consequences of sex.”

— Dorian Solot, I Love Female Orgasm: An Extraordinary Orgasm Guide.

(Source: historicalslut, via pyrexia)

by Eva Heisler

A woman sits up straight: she’s on edge. She leans into the cushions: she’s provocative. She leans over to another woman: she’s a gossip. She holds the other woman’s hand: she’s queer. She hold an apple in her hand: she’s a temptress. She slices the apple: she’s tame. She slices your heart out: she’s a bitch. She wear a heart at her throat: she’s a beauty. She wears a silk tie at her throat: she’s butch. She wears a silk camisole: she’s a slut. She’s slutty: she’s a celebrity. She celebrates herself: she’s got nerve. She’s celibate: she’s pathetic. She’s empathetic: she’s a sweet thing. She sweetens the deal: she’s a honeypot. She hones her tongue: she’s a shrew. She’s shrewd: she’s deadly. She’s dead: she’s innocent. She’s a virgin: She’s on edge.