The Maenad
Sweating Comets, Men O Pause
But bodies reach and crawl
Tendrils finding their way through the bars
Out of the cages where death itself rages, reaching out
Reaching time.
But bodies are not steady states
We are comets, fat or thin with water
Proximal to the nearest heated, glowing body
Growing fatter as they near
Thinning and threadbare as they sail
out into a yawning chill infinity
Just what is a woman worth
What is a woman worth
When she stands by herself
Away from you,
What is her value, all
Alone?
Without any sisters?
Her value without
Any friends
What is her value
Without coworkers
Children
Or
Family
That
Listen
Does a woman’s voice have weight
Or is it only a contribution, an added state
Contributed by those with voice, and friends, coworkers, and children.
Nothing implicit, nothing innate.
Just what she is given
What can be taken away
I am that I am
A thing wild in the wind, fear
I bring change I bring rain I bring headaches and pain
I have all Need. The only thing I own is my body and I can do with it whatever
I please, this body is a weapon, a tool, a stringed and gaudy instrument.
It is the implement;
it is not me.
This dancing screaming burning insecure divine fucking flesh is my sword, my mace, my
flail
I am mud on your carpet, I am stray beads of cum on your sons or daughters
Mine is the wisdom of sin, what did the stranger put in this strange tea
Mine is the knowledge of power. True power.
Persistence. Endurance. Infection.
My ants are crawling all over your body
My rants are nesting in the rottingest parts of your soul, curling up, feeding
Vowels form worms of healing, cannibalizing metabolizing sorrow and excreting
Sweet and joyful meat
But the meat I offer is bloody and full of surprises and secrets. You cannot un-partake.
There is no shame in refusing or flight.
But be certain if you taste of my poison
My sisters and I do not keep hostages or prisoners
Heroes cum, dine, and dive, striving always to
Stand and shine in the anti-light
The riddle of Achilles – memory or survival; choose
The death of a hero or the life of a pensioner
There is no arete in the shadows only snuff and anonymity
And I seek a better quality, class of death and demise
Give me strife, give me wonderment, give me
Bodies to sacrifice and Heroes to feed, flay and send on their way
Dancing on bones, this mine is a hungry grove
We sink deep, this well,
Bellies convulse
Holes contain this velvet well of night
Untamed
And in Virtue, Bloody.
The Maenad
The Maenad. (She/Hers)
Transgender Goddess
Activist, Model, Poet, Publisher. Sex Worker, Subversive.
Author of Creative Non-fiction, Erotica, Fantasy, and Science Fiction
Her work has appeared @ZinDaily, @corporeallitmag, @engenderedlit @gutslutpress, @lupercaliapress, @fahmidanjournal @redplanetmag @wickedgayways @365tomorrows, Beyond the Underground, the Gongfarmer’s Almanac and Madwomen in the Attic.
Her first chapbook, a work of trans erotic liberation, the Ishtar Cycle, is available from @lupercaliapress
The Maenad writes about gender, class, sex, inequality, mental illness, and the intersection of these points, sometimes also writing about culture, games, space, futurism, and the human condition.
Always thinking of other possible worlds and how best to help this one we all inhabit.
Find her and her work @dreaminggynoid and @scarlet_maenadum on IG.