[Here’s a poem that will be appearing alongside work by 35 other authors in the coming-soon Crisis Chronicles Press publication Fuck Poetry.]

O Shun

She said I fucked her

But she pretty


Had it backwards

Wouldn’t take back her words til

They’d already escaped and

It was too late.


They were lies

How could she lie

On her back with her hands pinned

High above her head by mine

While I ate her vagina?


My arms aren’t that long

But it did not matter

To the so-called long arm of the law

Which insisted on reaching longer than it was meant to

Like someone trying to overcompensate.


She said she’d never fucked before

But the doctor who said

There was no sign of rape

Said she had

Or at least that her hymen was broken.


Before that she told me she had

But told me not to tell her dad or mother

They wouldn’t understand

Her dad especially (she had no brother)

Would demand the blood of any prick

Who dared pluck her so-called cherry

And she wouldn’t want that to happen

To her very frightened eighteen-year-old boyfriend

Who I thought resembled a queer in headlights.



You might say

But I swear I did not see it coming.


Actually no one saw the predictable come

Not her

Not me

Not the doctor

There was no semen to be seen

When he performed the rape kit

Though she swore there should be.


But my court appointed attorney

Was out to sea you might say

With the flu the two days of my trial

So the lyre was allowed to play me the musician

Like a black magician

And the following day the music

Subsided with the tidal rush

And hush

Let everyone else go on with their lives on shore

While I was crushed

In the vortex of the ocean


And o
Shunned I