The Thoughts of Valerie Solanas (in the minute before shooting Warhol and the minute after)
Freak! Read the S.C.U.M. manifesto!
You reek of distilled Paris
and those neat risograph prints
ricochet with linear patriarchy,
the oppression of pressed paper
produced in moneyed parody.
Your hand is a distant memory in your work,
let it make true marks like a philosopher again!
I swear I have lived honestly;
let my words be a gift to you.
You and your wife – ‘the tape recorder’
for you (of all people) get what ‘wife’ is;
a silent witness, a recipient, a perpetrator,
same as whores,
same as all of us
with intact chromosomes
being fucked roughly
like islands in storms.
Yellow is the colour of the future,
a hooker’s shirt and guess what
I’m wearing it today
but have no sex at all and yes
I weep for you
and your weary womb-envy.
I think about what makes you a success,
and me, a side show, an extra.
Tricks and mantras for a living
skin and bone on skin and bone
and the rickety-tick of a typewriter
drawing a thread of sound
through an unlit room
like an electric shock in Bellevue
reserved for the dissenting undead.
Let’s call this a hysterectomy
of sorts, the language of violence
has its own vowel sounds
and is smokeless like cordite,
as bright as junk-light,
you were sharkish
when last in the diner
and it made me uneasy –
you thought my anger was
a bloodhound sniffing out
when really what broke me
was the carelessness
which -nota bene –
only the patriarchy can afford.
I leave you a paper bag
with my address book –
ring my friends,
call in my debtors,
clamp the sanitary pad
to your bleeding spleen
Peroxide Jesus, and I’ll see you
on the other side.
Rushika Wick is a writer currently studying at the Poetry School, London. She has had publications in magazines including Litro, Cold Lips, Word-o-mat and Ambit. Her writing often explores the embodiment of social contracts for the purpose of protest.
You can find her Belladonna Poetry Clinic here