Michael T. Robinson
Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground
Red Pulp Underground


Patriarch

I have often dreamt
Of killing you
In the middle of the nite…
Stabbing the intestine of your ideology
With the jagged edge
Of
My
Knife.
And then carve it up
Slowly
To the heart
Of your
Chest,
Where this monster called Masculinity
Repetitions
And
Rests.
Then
Place your phallic insanity
In an ancient guillotine.
Lower the blade slowly
Watch the machismo bleed.
And I wonder what could be heard
Through the echoes
Of your screams?
Women battered in Memphis?
Little girls
Raped in Beijing?
Would dead drag kings rise        
To the decibels of your voice?
And who would fight for your emeritus
Fearing there was no other choice?
Yes
I must admit I’m concerned
In a state
Of sheer fright
See my commitment to killing u
Keeps me up late
In the nite
I spend hours shining my pistols
Evenings sharpening my knife
And though you hide within constructs
And my shadows
You are never fully
Out
Of my
Sight.
This is not a warning
But a prophecy
Of truth
That says this madness will end
Even if I must kill me
To reach u
So from this day forth
On a coming Goddess sunrise
Let the spirit of the patriarch clutch its chest
Knowing that soon
Ends its time.

November 2007
Not a revolution

I don't feel much like a revolutionary writer.

I feel more
like a murderer
stabbing at my own dreams in the nite

feel the frustration of a blind man
seconds after regaining his sight

I stumble through academic halls
textbooks
anthologies
questioning this masters'
and even this PhD

what does Feminist
Nationalist
Marxist
mean to me?

Maybe I don't want a nation
or a Gender
or a Queer

maybe I just want to live in the mountains
for the rest of my years

and dance around naked
pray myself free
of your ideologies
epistemologies
and maybe
just be?
But how do I get free
when all your expectations just bind?

you've written my path
traced patterns on the edge of my mind

you claim to know what I should say
claim to know who I should trust
I can love you
even respect u

but flee from u
God knows I must!

These chains that you wear
clanking down ivory towers and streets

they may be polished
may be lighter
but get them the hell away from me!

I am not a revolutionary writer.
I repeat:
I am not a revolutionary writer.

I am just a nigga
with a pen
who need rest....

December 2007


Animal Rights..?

In some places

Parks
Are just heaping composts
Where people bring
Their caged slaves
Out
To shit

I take yoga.
But not to raise Kundalini
Or any such silly thing as that,
But because I too want to have the pleasure
Of sticking my nose up my own ass
At the moment someone else’s runny
Revolutionary
Stink
Slides
Through

December 2007