I’m really getting into flarf poetry, and particularly the idea of writing feminist flarf. There’s a terrible sort of zeitgeist to typing provocative phrases into Google and boggling at what comes up, the things people write and the views they hold. Which isn’t to say I’m still not being selective about the lines I choose, or even that I don’t, from time to time, take only part of a sentence, so that it appears to laud what it formerly criticised: the point is that someone felt the need to rebuke that position in the first place, because someone else suggested it was true.
This piece was inspired by VS Naipaul and his spectacular literary sexism.
Women Can’t Write
According to baseline research, women can’t
create. It would be funny
if it weren’t so sad.
It is so much easier to type
using a penis –
no woman can compare to him.
Women can’t write good slash.
Women are not passionate enough about sex
and concentrate too much on feelings
to be able to write raunchy stories:
women think that the Kama Sutra
is an Indian takeaway.
Women can’t write emails for shit.
They send them back and forth all day
like they’re shopping for useless junk,
each one more useless than the last.
Women can’t write hardboiled crime.
Women can’t write hard SF.
Women can’t write fantasy books.
Women can’t write effective horror.
Women can’t write poems.
Women can’t write comedy.
Women can’t write believable male characters.
Women can’t write for anyone but women.
My lady sensibility is limited
to menstruation (hilarious),
and unicorns mating (adorably hilarious).
Drowned in oestrogen,
women can’t write for shit
so it might be nice
if there was an award they could win
without needing help
from affirmative action.