“I don’t hit women,” you slick saying
short breath’d and quiet,
slouching down couch like laundry
with porchlight kissing bottle
wrapped loose in your palm,
Heineken green glow
your face like mint.
“I don’t hit women, but ya know
that skirt you got
on rides up thighs
like wind and that top you wear
cuts sharp down chest,
breast sides peek through to the world,
not me.”
You say,
“baby, I think you look so…
so much better in that other shirt.
You say,
“baby, I just don’t think other men deserve to see someone so…
so beautiful.”
Then puckering your lips oh just slightly,
arms crossed & head tilted
like a duck, you’re proud.
You did it!
Protected her with success once more
from the i must carry i must open door i must not let them see you i must not let you go out
i must must must must
control
world you helped build.
“I don’t hit women,”
in confidence you smile
so sure,
holding her head like jewels,
not person, you
make love, no
you fuck
like a gentleman
shopping Black Friday rush,
dry dick tearing through skin.
She’s silent and likes it.
This is your law, U.S. law moral code
gripped tight to your chest,
gender codes stronger
than capitalism.
And when people do see you fuck up
it’s okay, not you.
It’s Heine-Heineken talking,
“blame it on the alcohol.”
Cuz if people knew you would still abuse & rape sober?
Proud you sit glowing green
to know you follow the laws set by such great men
that tell you,
“don’t hit women.”
Such great men that zip lips
at pressure,
at coercion,
at persuasion.
“Oh come on, why not, you’ll like it, i thought you like me, i can make you want it cuz
if you don’t i’ll i’ll i’ll…”
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