Written in memory of X
who escaped from Idi Amin
then had to be chemically castrated.
She-devil magic wiggles wobble-orbs
of siren-cleft, thus shaping heady dream.
This dimple-flesh all reasoning absorbs,
then finding bristle-mound hear loathing scream.
Around I pray for counsel and advice
on staying wayward thought or willful hand,
but only rate some pill and jab device.
Flaunt maids entice then quacks don’t understand.
Do women dress to promise or deny?
Are medics meant to gag us or to cure?
The purdah-girls go by with downcast eye,
dull robes bedim the glare of their allure;
but bimbos bray-out “see – forbidden thrill,”
and they, or drugs, control my very will.