the parade of lagomorphs

and when he answered "your duty to your husband and children",
she demurred—Germaine Greer

fifty even forty years ago these women
are more or less dead [betrothal-scarring-wed of facial coverings//]
at this age sexless damp dishrags
of resentment in bags worn thin and blue as veins in Saxon-skin
by husbandry and the pounding of sheets
in some interior scullery just about kicking in dead sleet
petals and sand and sawdust and hacking spit
now look at them texting up as all outer pimped as reality TV
as though their duty to waste and shrink was somewhere cancelled
redacted between cream and the clash
gesture/furnace/glower at them expectant and sexual every one rodded up
with a pink battery roscoe of Thatcher-Solanas tripstick
somehow some right to fuck forever night etc

when did all these women/whore-hen/harrier of forest law/bust a flutter
from the blood-gutter so loose into all expectation?
[alle the nighte we heard that lytel demon mutter
and we there watched him from the pantry licke at the newe butter]

.