Joey Cloudy online

The White Woman’s Burden

“When women go wrong, men go right after them.”

— Mae West

“Women are the only exploited group in history

 to have been idealized into powerlessness.” 

–Erica Jong

“She’s a rich bitch ya’ know, she was raised by maids.”

—Steve Zissui

Our master of ceremonies has just been informed that we only have three minutes to entertain you.  Ewe, a barroom full of semi-literate simians; you, functionally illiterate gen X & Y’ers, offspring of the Prozac generation, citizens of the Ritalin nation.  Listen, Dali’s clock is a cheap Timex watch ticking off debutantes armed with overloaded bustiers as blonde ambitions sidle up looking for mister good bar in the slaughterhouses of Deep Ellum, Lower Greenville or anywhere but here, in going nowhere slow America.  Where the trailer trash and trust fondled babies are jockeying for position doing the sidewinder.  Shoulder to sloping shoulder slumming as far into re-gentrified ‘Nigger Heaven’ as the urban chic children of the craven bourgeoisie dare to venture, when the state fair is not in South Dallas. 

Observer observed in a slurring stupored still-life, drunk and disorderly on your parents’ credit cards.  Truly convinced that your so-called life is…hard.  This is all about a pose that does not challenge status quo silence of the sheep, allowing you to stagger home with your bowdlerized illusions intact.  This is about how we lower the limbo bar to placate mediocre expectations with a hyphen, yours’ and ours.  A silent submission permitting premeditated Pavlovian response on the invincible statistical implications of making the grade on the ‘Bell Curves’ preordained harmonic algorithms.  Slipping the electronic leash of cultured revelations while pseudo-scientist concur over conclusions considering the connotations of concoctions to plot the graph tracking institutionalized ignorance’s clandestine anti-intellectualist guerrilla campaign.  Revered delusion maintenance commonly referred to as the rationalization that serves to maintain certain pretenses of a kind of elitism that is the soulless province of the silver spoon fed privileged economic minorities’ brood.  Often seen oozing out of the razor burned out vulvas of Barbie dolls with a pulse. 

Right now, here on a multinational global conglomerate called earth the “fashionable non conformist” can and do not stand for something outside of the dogma of superiority inherited with ancestral wealth.  This is the metaphysical quagmire we are programmed to aspire to, the all-american 12 stepping soccer M.I.L.F.  ( mom I’d like to fuck ) on the hood of her Lexus S.U.V.  ( sports utility vehicle ): this is the definition of many an irony, this is biting the hand that feeds your habits.  Watch as genre replaces culture, without smoke machines and funhouse mirrors but fist fucking pure prestidigitation.  Look, while the masses enviously consume our goddesses’ pornographic media image, pixel by digital pixel, breaking themselves barbarically…”on the wheel of woe” with their ridiculously vain attempts to impersonate immortal celebrities.   

Pay attention to me. I have large firm breasts filled with silicon.

Pay attention to me. I have the perfect Goyam nose, after a little rhinoplasty.

Pay attention to me. I have the straight edge blonde hair.

Pay attention to me. I hold this truth in still blue eyes. 

Pay attention to me, as I shed this thin white skin.

Pay attention to me, while I am still nubile and lush. 

Pay attention to me. I am the mistress of manipulation.

Pay attention to me. My ensemble cost more than your car.

Pay attention to me, because this body is my only commodity.

Pay attention to me, I come to play 

‘Who wants to pity fuck a million dollar trust fund baby into submission’?

Pay attention to me, before I get too old 

 to play  this whores game anymore.

Pay attention to me, before your friends and family find me out 

and warn you that the empress has no clothes or imagination.

Pay attention to me, because what I have to offer you will not last as long as this poem. 

Pay attention to me, “I am programmed to consume”, so I can lead you around the mall, whispering telepathic promises to your balls, maxing out your credit cards cooing, 

“Buy me. ”

Pay attention to me, 

“…you do not need to wear a condom with me.”

“…my tubes are tied…” 

and “…I want you to really feel it.” 

Pay attention to me, because I know you will do right by me

in order to take care of our…”little miracle child”.

Pay attention to me, as years roll into decades while I sit on my ass 

watching daytime television, sport fucking the yardman, the pool-man, the deliverymen, the paperboy, the housekeeper and the nanny. 

Pay attention to me, being kept is boring when you lust 

insatiably to be objectified, obsessive compulsively craving being 

desired as the only satisfying distraction to loneliness. 

Pay attention to me, while I refuse to get a job. Because everyone knows 

it is your sacred duty as a man to provide. 

 however, do not take my word for it asks your mullah, rabbi or minister. 

Pay attention to me, if I do not get my way, 

I will kill 

myself 

and yes, that is a veiled threat 

against the lives 

of  our children.

Pay attention to me. See, how I am controlling you, 

by cannibalistically cutting into my own flesh. 

Pay attention to me; of course, I take your kindness

for a weakness; after all, if you were strong you would not be 

here, with me.

Pay attention to me, a middle-aged soma-soaked suburbanite 

with a history of scatological neuroses, I use to mask my inherent laziness and ennui.

Pay attention to me. I wasted my youth getting by on my good looks now 

both are gone and I am frightened because I have no one 

to take care of me.

Pay attention to me, as I try to reinvent myself as an artiest, 

because like me it looks easy 

and I do not understand it so, 

Hopefully, nobody else does either.

Pay attention to me, as I walk the root-shattered sidewalks of hoods, barrio back streets and unpaved trailer parks blacktops. Empty lot lizards of truck-stops, industrial warehouse districts, parks, alleys and cemeteries shocking hungry ghetto ghosts on the variegated ‘ho stroll nights.  Looking to barter sex for drugs or drug money.  Man do I need a hit, fix, bump, push, toke, snort, taste, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, on and on into the infinity of head-games and dope slang, courtesy the university and corporate pharmaceutical research and development laboratories. 

Pay attention to me, while I demand unearned respect with only the prenuptial pretense of intelligence.  Behold the trauma muted, perfect victim, poster child, succubus intravenously feeding on the date-raped muse of the pornographic sexually repressed moon dream poets.  

Pay attention to me.  I am the Queefer Queen. Sure, I went to college, got my M R S.  who needs a M.F.A. or a PHD. when you have a cus. 

( Hebrew for pussy )

Pay attention to me, as I drown gargling on my own ensanguined anemic excretions, a freeze-dried polymer infused Günter Van Hagen’s ghoul fleshed 21st century mummified plastintina fuck machine.  

Selling the sisterhood and myself out for a sugar daddy

with a six figure plus annual payday, 

Double-digit dick thick as Babe Ruth’s Louisville Slugger, 

Mac- mansion in a gated community 

and a lifetime supply of Blow and Viagra.  

Pay attention to me, as I leave a slime trail of vaginal secretions 

across the slick sticky pages of human history.   

I am Cleopatra, Delilah, Helen of Troy: 

Wars are fought over the power of a meat-hole. 

Pay attention to me, as I seize exotic eastern and existentialist dogma piles as my own, covering reams of paper with my marriage/miscarriage 

of Buddha humping the sin pit of the Blessed Virgin.  

Still you all sit, a pheromone captivated audience, 

smiling savantly as I pontificate inanely 

as if pussy farts were a Messiah’s reluctant philosophy.  

Pay attention to me, the Princess of the Politically Correct, 

Belle of revisionist history, a liar rewriting 

the lie because a truth is irrelevant 

if it bruises my ego or fucks up my hair. 

Pay attention to me, while I commandeer the jargon of rationalist 

to obfuscate my own ineptitude, making a mockery of all science and reason. 

Pay attention to me, I am the prom queen, cheerleader, exotic dancer, happy-ending massage therapist, porn star, desperate ex-housewife, Hooters waitress, internet exhibitionist, swimsuit edition, sashed tiara wearing, pageant winning, Victoria’s Secret super lingerie model centerfold spokesperson, Dr. Hollywood creation, a Dolly. 

A Madison Avenue hot air whipped chemically dyed sugary confection, 

with a vagina, the sweet viscosity of cotton candy…”You want some?” 

Pay attention to me: while the circumcised gods are pulling a soul train on 

bulimic junkie runway urchins of the uptown subliminal advertising agencies.  Who have programmed you in the womb to worship my idealized Greco-Roman synthetic body, that is the epitome 

of all the Aryan worlds’ standards of feminine beauty, 

to which I have been surgically altered and enhanced to conform.  

Pay attention to me, or I have butchered my body for nothing.

Pay attention to me… “Our name is legion for we are many.” 

“half devil and half child”, half feminine and half wiles, 

this is the life unexamined on the “useless surface” 

where image is everything 

or I am nothing.

Pay attention to me, as I emulate the talented famous, famously talented, 

famous for being famous american woman, expendable as any 

dip-shit dumb enough to enlist.  Soulless soldiers so well camouflaged, 

you might mistake an immobilized WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant)

for a Galleria manikin. 

Pay attention to me, even though I am easily replaceable, when old, bored with, out of style or at the end of the physical year. When the new models hit the dealership showroom floors, you can trade yours in, before the manufacturer’s warranty expires and I fall apart due to planned obsolescence.  Trade up every twenty years, we now come factory equipped with standardized interchangeable body parts 

and you can have me 

in any color you want, so long as I can pass as white. 

Pay attention MTV perpetuates the myth of me, Mary Kay Madame’s pimp me like a Bangkok daughter sold to Mama-sans stable for the round eye international sex tourist trade.  Bride, Cosmo and Vogue magazines groom me.  Men and boys the world over eye-ball me in everything from Playboy to National Geographic dousing the one dimension, where I seem almost substantive, as if imaginary orifices were buckets filled to dripping with gooey bukkake. 

Pay attention to me, as I flower 

into a beauty almost there, 

a feast for the I, 

the trophy wife.

Pay attention to me. 

While I enslave all men 

through their eyes, 

still eye am 

the slave 

to all men.

Pay attention to me, men eat me like pi.

Pay attention to me. I have the cunt. 

Pay attention and see,

how the poet ends 

this poem as if it were a film 

directed by Wes Anderson, 

when the world miraculously begins 

to move in slow motion; 

roll credits, cue music, 

Prince, ‘Pussy Control’

Joey Da’rrell Cloudy