The Politicks of My Body by Jacklyn Janeksela
The politicks of my body goes like this. It’s none of your fucking business. My body is mine –whatever that means, but it’s not yours. My body might actually hate your body if it could go so low. Watch this body dip.
This comes from source, you don’t know dirt and bones as ancient as what’s packed into my body. All real human blood is passed between other real humans; your amoeba self can’t understand that.
Leave my body alone. Even when I’ve screamed, you didn’t come to my rescue. So fuck you.
My body is not on the market; it’s not made for the market, either. Take your body business market mess some place else.
Listen, my body makes it rain. It’s so natural it will make you cry. Carries tears to mountains that remain untouched by man’s hands; it rolls raindrops between cracks and crevices, cleansing, creating, cunting. This body carves. It makes figures from its own flesh. My body makes rain. It is rain.
The politicks of my body should have a leader, but it doesn’t. Don’t go eyeballing the position. I boss bitch through half your tribe. The politicks of my body is both community and galaxy.
Universe treats it right. You –provoker and enabler, capitalist monger, hating ass hater, raping ass raper, shame all the mamas for your birth. Your politicks sour all that is sweet. I spite and spit. I smite and smudge. No one can tell this body it ain’t manifested energies spinning on astral planes. This body is plain pretty as fuck. The body churches itself, folds prayers between her legs.
It might feel like an army; and it is. It might feel like a building for real education; yes, please. It might feel like a temple; don’t you know it.
You tried to take down this body already, once. I’ve come back from that ledge, that razor blade edge; I’m healing and fighting. This body digs into dirt, pulls down entire skies, pauses sunsets. My body rebuilds from source up, it never fears losing parts because this body is reptilian.
Do not question the power of a bitch like me –do not minimize this body. She grows with the Moon, she is the Moon. Watch these gibbous thigh materialize, watch the water ripple around a body out of body, floating, in straight up free flow.
The politicks of my body crushes anyone who dares. Go ahead. Try it. We will all come for you.
When I speak of my body, I speak of all women’s bodies. I speak of the natural born female and the self-made one; I speak of the femme and the not so femme. Of all those in between; within and without. I speak of the non-binary. I speak of WOC & QTWOC’s bodies. Have you no clue of what we can do? Is that why you keep coming at me/us.
The karmic force of our bodies shifts dimensions; swallows men whole, whole handfuls and armfuls and cupfuls like the bra I’m burning and not burning in your tired ass trash can where we warm our bodies for the upcoming years, brew nourishing teas and soups, spark magic, sharpen tools, write manifestos. We come ready. We come full hungry.
The politicks of my body cannot speak for your body. It doesn’t know a hate like that. It doesn’t fantasize hurt or play kill. You are all alone there; better watch your body’s back. I told you, we are coming. We. Are. Coming.
The politicks of my body moves mountains. The same mountains where water falls on natural vaginas. Behind each blade of grass, whispers. The whispers of us, not sorrow, but us of triumph. Name us victory; call us both Victor & Victoria. This body embodies all genders and none; it is not for you to decide.
This body decides on where it sleeps. Let sleeping dogs lie with one eye open, as I see your ass creep on this body and snatch fools by their heads.
The politicks of this body stomps around leaving muddy trails like bread crumbs that lead me back home. Along the way; other bodies come forth, of shapes with and without names –divine. It’s like a body electric.
We blister for the cause. We shine like waxed surfaces and waxing Moons; glisten like witches at nightfall. We come to witness your fall. The politicks of our bodies politely declines your offers. That’s a lie. Fuck your offers, we got our own agenda. We smash your propaganda like all the bones of your forefathers; we spare no future seed germination, no sprouting here while these legs march.
The politicks of our bodies goes home only if it needs to rest. Only if it need to rest. The politicks of our bodies is an insomniac.
About the author:
jacklyn janeksela is a wolf and a raven, a cluster of stars, & a direct descent of the divine feminine. she can be found @ Thought Catalog, Luna Magazine, DumDum Magazine, Visceral Brooklyn, Anti-Heroin Chic, Public Pool, Pank, Split Lip, Landfill, Yes, feelings, Heavy Feather, The Opiate; Stoneslide Corrective Aftermath issue; Civil Coping Mechanism anthology, A Shadow Map & Outpost Rooted anthology; & elsewhere. she is in a post-punk band called the velblouds. her baby @femalefilet. she is an energy. find her @ hermetic hare for herbal astrological readings.
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