My friend,

Die Kornblume

Please don’t ever

Die, Die Kornblume
Or not before my time

Somehow by seed

By air

By boat

By chance

By the wing of a beautiful Schmetterling

Die Kornblume she did come

And then she left

And went away

And left me feeling numb

Dear Die Kornblume

I plead you now

Never, ever die

Die Kornblume

Please don’t leave me

Or not before my time

For the colours here won't be the same
If Die Kornblume does not shine

Die Kornblume please out live my life
If you'd be so kind

And I groan

I’ve reached an age that I promised myself would manifest as a teen

The gut slackens along with all my bodily sinew

The hair falls out

Accepting and rolling over to age like a dog that wants its belly scratched because it can’t do it himself

And I groan and make noises as I lift my frame from the floor

And I groan at the realisation that one day my friends will be no more

And I groan knowing full well that it won’t get better

And I groan

I remember a time of party hats, cheerio’s and tomato sauce where I could be anything

And I groan

I remember defying an ill conception of physics as the trainer wheels came off

And I groan

I remember the furious masturbation state of a teenaged boy caught up in himself who was going to change the world

And I groan

I remember the day when I poured pints for upper class pricks

And I groaned at the start of every shift

I still groan and continue to

I remember making good friends who took wing and left

And I groan

I remember far less than I should as life takes its tole

And I groan

I remember with horrible vividness the day my little brother died

And I groan

I was informed last week I owe the IRD cash

And I groan

I remember a time when I believed in myself

And I groan

I remember the people who believe in me

And I groan

I am too scared to live, but I don’t want to die

And I groan and I groan and I groan as I’ve grown

And I groan

Secretarian sectarian state

A sectarian by gone state of bigot pigs with impotent minds
Gave birth to semi concubine constructs
The typists, busy bodied, giggly school girl, college graduate interns posed no harm

They were made to pose nonetheless

They posed
Nude to ogling CEO’s
They posed
Silent questions to their confused morality
They posed
Not out of submissiveness, but perceived necessity
For minimum wage
They posed Nine to five, Five days a week
They posed

 “Those Sheila’s don’t know how good they’ve got it!” Said a curly tailed, intern, male sycophant, to the surrounding long pork at the after work drinks
A high heeled, perfumed flower sitting in the corner of the business round table smiled accordingly, as she poured out the whiskey and compliments to undeserving swine

It was expected you know
It was how Fridays go

It was expected she’d reel in the two day delight
Expecting the weekend accepting her plight
Expecting to cook and to clean until late Sunday night
Expecting nothing in return

And what if she was?
Expecting that is

She expected she’d be laid off on the spot
It was expected and thus was accepted

But not by all

For in between her degradation and coffee breaks; heretic pagans burnt their bras and worshipped their bodies in the streets, renouncing their faith in the self-appointed gender gods

The missionary positioned, conservative business men cowered in horror
The subservient wives grew strength on the backs of femenists
They in turn grew backs of their own
Then legs as they evolved
They stood on their own two feet And filed for emancipation

Those who had created inequality in their own image held desperatley on to their flaccid, defeated, dwindling members
They gathered in the dark corners of lodges, strip clubs and R.S.A’s staunchly for the whole world to forget

Lest we forget

Those brave ladies who fought for an equal world