I'm trying to write a fiction piece about politics, even though I usually write poetry about sex. Sex political? Well, there's the missionary position, the patriarchy and the appalling lack of lobster bibs. Maybe that last bit isn't so clear. But it's plenty clear for crustaceans. How, you may ask, are the political aspects of sex expressed through members of the Palinuridae family? Think about it.
Think about being unassuming and unaware, just slowly scrambling along in a cloud of sand, that floating sand that smells so sweetly of decayed fish, when suddenly! bam! The trap, the net, the claw. Like your world just convulsed. An out of control dilatation, expansion, convulsion...tremor. And then you wake up in a glass cage with hundreds of others just like you, but your claws are bound with this ugly yellow tape, this tacky engagement ring, these uneven botox injections in your upper lip.
It's impossible to smile. Your attenna have been trimmed and permed. Your tan's fading fast.
It's not so much orgasm that puts you here as the double headed devil lizard of romance and The Disney. As The Disney has taught you since you opened your little blue kitten-eyes and learned to focus, romance is the blatant, secret key to what passes as life, passing.
Pairing off into the money colored tunnel of love is what you were hatched for, your barbie tells you, your pink knitted baby bonnet tells you, the cute frills in your braids tell you, all while your mother, that TV, tells you just how to trap the man of your dreams. But in your dreams it's you who's trapped. In some smelly lobster trap in some smelly harbor off the Isle of Mann, and what does romance have to with lobsters, really? And how is this a work of fiction when fiction is supposed to go like this and this piece of writing is going like this: blah, blah, lobsters, blah, blah, blah. Where's the conflict? More importantly, where's the heroine? Let's say the lobster, Betty, is the protagonist, what is she doing right now, holding absolutely still at the bottom of a pile of 25 lobsters, or scrabbling against the glass walls of the tank at the top? And who really cares what a lobster named Betty is doing, what kind of name is Betty for a lobster anyway? Where is she, exactly, really, not hypothetically -- there's a sinking feeling that Betty's just shards of buttered flesh being cleaned from a tablecloth by a waiter stiffed on his tip.
Where is this story going? Who's narrating it? hello? Is there anyone out there? Who's in charge? Is this going to go and on, ad naseum, etc., etc. -- is it ever going to end?
And what's so political about lobsters and romance, is this some kind of a joke?
Some kind of IRONY?