The Poetry of Cunt

the poet martin wrote: one more thing,
where I'm from cunt is
about the worst word imaginable.
you seem to use it tenderly and I'm not trying
to be funny. what's the deal
there?

the poet janice wrote: vagina sounds too clinical, pussy
purrs and generally I don't like felines. vagina’s a name
for a quim queen or a prairie cunt. to regulate, ground
for sneaking out and coming home past one–vagina!
you’re grounded, don’t you know how
to manage your parts? grounded
for a month, tucked away in a closet,

and the chick with the disgraced cunt walks wilted
wearing pink so all the kids know that
if they peek under her skirt and crinolines,
there’s an empty space or worse,
a prosthetic vagina. an adult ashamed
might choose vagina, a word

whose first letter hides near the end
of the alphabet, but whose last
is first, cause you just can’t get away
from a cunt, even saying the word aloud
has guts and bravado. Now,

I can call a man a prick,
"Oh you fucking prick!" while he fondly
boasts about its heated heists and women
waving fans hotly chat about this prick
and that. But a cunt, baby,

is a real living thing, raw sex
and honest. it’s a word
of endearment like I love you sweet
sweetest of cunts, didn’t another
great poet, not named martin–some dude

called Will, compose in a slash
that bit about goodnight sweet cunt and
parting being sweet sorrow, cause you know
it’s true. when a cunt and a prick love each other
there is nothing gonna separate them, not
age, not another woman. that eye on a prick’s head

is straight focused in a taut loving line
with a cunt clearly in front. So I wondered,
when southern martin penned, cunt’s a baaad
word, what the fuck's this man scribbling, does
his cock take offense and if so baby,

cunt cunt cunt million times, it’s about your
cock, martin, with its eye
at the tip, the first line of vision taught,
that tactile tingling line
between a cock and a cunt, something

magnetic, something about love, lust
aching, hope, dreams, something
about trembling, waiting, so
how’s it bad, martin from the south. shy cunts
leave a latch on the door cautiously

opening and if you peek gently in, you’ll catch
sight of a fucking flower bed, a hot house
with tropical plants, Oh this cunt
is a tropical plant shifting colours, so’s
you never quite know

the season or what the weather's
like. you gotta test the temperature, baby,
when you're loving up an authentic cunt, shit
what a word and such a generous welcoming,

taking off the latch, letting
you come right on in and giving
you a tour, sneaking you to the back room, peering
into secret cupboards with glowing treasures so tightly
packed that when you open the door, they fall,

honey baby mine, sinking
into your arms, down to your cock, there really
is a botanical garden inside and a waterfall
to sit under and recite
the poetry of a cunt.


Copyright Janice Colman 2008