Confessional poets
Are thought of in the feminine perjorative
Ironically men
Confess their camoflage
When calling their characters Hank
That’s for you … Mr blowhard Bukowski
Or Billy Childish, nuff said, I suspect
Whilst this Plath enigma, I doubt shall ever be cracked
Anymore than the grey stones weighting sweater
Sexton either, what beautiful ankles and rouged lips
Even as she slipped, beneath the veil of sanity
Like a greyhound needing to outrun, even itself
Madness grows peacock feathers for weeds
Just another error in a misguided map
Thinking women lesser, colinders of experience
If I’d been a man I’d have
Grown my hair like a mane
Been kind to my daughters
And changed the notion of authority
For my words would be exclaimed intensely feminine
Applauded for
A man having been
A better woman
Like Bono and his award
We give ourselves away
By the bouquet full
Whatever happened
To women inheriting the wind?