For many fine men,
words like bitch,
or pussy—
sit heavy on the tongue,
emitted like a toxin
if ever uttered.
They would rather
default to tired,
or angry for
the perceived irrationality;
and vagina, or “special names”
for intimacy.
But if enemies appear
and the fatherland calls
to either resist,
or occupy—
(for the righteous cause,
of course)
and these same men
are dragged back
to caveman thought,
caveman rules,
and gift them with
a rocket launcher
or an F35—
well, daintiness
will quickly fly out
that cockpit window.
They may never call
their enemy’s woman a cunt,
but they’ll calmly
launch that rocket
into a home
or drop the two thousand pounds
of precision hellfire
on her, on her children—
to be burned so cleanly,
no face, no breast,
no vagina remains;
while their hearts,
their language,
remain spotlessly
clean.
