Blood caked. Split knuckled after brass knuckles
left a wallop scar, after mama cat’s
back claws dug scallop-sized grooves, red jackal’s
love, read across each palm. Your democrat’s
lost cause is worth fighting for. Whitman’s, “Great
Commonwealth.” The rage I find in Suffrage.
Left hand path’s wrath at all who live to hate
sisters while the boom box sings, “O bondage
up yours.” Under split skin bone shines. I’ve sewn
my flesh up before. I can manage pain
but not their hate; there are some nerves even
smack can’t dull. My love calls herself a crone,
a witch. I’m her consort; son with bloodstain
knuckles. Come. Cum in rage. Rage an omen.
“Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” is the title of a song by X-Ray Spex.