National Orgasm Day!

Anne Summers is trying to sell us more sex toys by drawing our attention to the fact that couples use dildos too. "But at what cost?" I hear you ask. I refer to the following:

"The results from a poll of Ann Summers' customers dispels the common myths that sexual exploration is a personal pursuit, and reflect a new togetherness about achieving satisfaction that celebrates the unparalleled enjoyment of sex in loving partnerships."

Well, Ann Summers (or is that MRS Ann Summers) discriminate against the sexually liberated single woman, why don't you?

In protest, I suggest that we all do NOT have orgasms today. This is as bad as racism! Put your clitori to work gals and keep your legs closed at all times.

Posie and out
x

Vagina Doughnut!

Great news culinary enthusiasts! My good friend and accomplice, Ms Chloe Mona Ivy Head, has produced for my, and your, delight, this sublime VAGINA DOUGHNUT EXTRAVAGANZA. As well as being an inventive chef and feminist, she's also an excellent artist, creating Giottoesque renditions of Bacchanal women in states of religious exaltation over those objects sacred to all womanhood: the bottle of Gin and pint of Cider. All hail!

Which brings me to make a little confession. You may note how this pastry-tastic pussy is extraordinarily life-like, and you'd be correct. It's modelled from life. Mine.


YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Women and Burgers: A Traumatic Account

I have been experimenting with female writing recently, and I have to say, I think I’m rather good. The following piece was inspired by a revelation I had the other day. For years now I’ve considered my low self-esteem to put me at a severe disadvantage, but actually I think it might have aided me in my sublime quest for female truth. Why on Friday night I had my brocade Cath Kithson wallet stolen / I dropped it on a bus after one too many bottles of Chablis with close friends in Primrose Hill. Of course I never think about these things; my head being like ‘a quick forest / filled with sleeping birds’, so only realised my fatal error when out buying myself a little treat from M&S on Saturday night. I was most alarmed; I had a mere £1.50 on my person and was forced to shop in the discount section of Sainsbury’s. I had to stand next to a man with a ponytail while surveying the rows of rotten burgers and then I had to buy the rotten burgers because it was all I could afford: awful!

So anyway the following is an exposition of that most traumatic experience written in the female economic style (i.e. disrupted syntax):

I skip, I, I, I, skip. I skip. Why does honey in the rain disappear? I loved you once. Oh red compile, I saw you making that pink sludge in your fingers. Oh how could, I forget those fingers you have. Their meat. Yes I know that, now, but at the time I was so lonely without you by my side and the burgers. I ate every one of them and you said I was greedy. Was I, greedy? Maybe. Who can tell? The long clod of myself, the wavering banded brackets of love that I would pour out all the same. The man with the snake like grey of silver ponytail: “Beauty,” he said. “Beautiful burger, I am yours.” Breathe.

L=A=N=G=U=I=S=H

There aren't enough spiked words to satisfy you
or unlikely couplings
Double fuck of double entrende there
is no tongue in the piano
When I try to excrete vacuole tempests I am only trying to please you
My faith is not on fire now
Punch the baby in my stomach into a phrase for you
There is no dictionary for dissonance
Virgin generator of spiteful prose
No formula for discordance
I am trying to stick a pin in a page for you
I am burning my damp folds to retrieve a language for you
Gestalt bullshit djinn wreck never happened
The only thing in my hand makes unfortunate sense
Is a well of black sand entirely unpoetical
The fridge has no answers I am composing
Millenarian prose from last week's crossword answers
(half of which I got wrong anyway)

It goes purse eppicecass spear romeo orcs
esau spear eliot, sabre pistol opart styx
intuition chaucerian, menecrates inge
from which you can judge that I read
a very pretentious magazine

Intelligent women have better orgasms

Boffins say...

Is the above true? I'm not sure. I'm often thinking of other more esoteric things while having sex, which can distract from the task at hand. Questions like 'Whatever ever happened to the Amber Room?' or 'Palestine: a two state solution?' The list is endless...

Miss England...oh dear I don't know what to think.

Ok, so Rachel Christie has become the first black Miss England, and I don't know WHAT to think.

On one hand, she's a formidable woman: an accomplished athlete (like her uncle, Linford Christie) who's struggled through a difficult childhood (father fell into crime etc) to burst through the white bastions of Miss England and "to show people, the younger generation especially, that you can do something positive with your life." She's also 5'10", which is awesome.

On the OTHER hand, Miss England, like all beauty pageants, is an outdated parade of female bodies which carelessly objectifies young women.

Should we really be inspired by these sorts of competitions? Prowess on the track is something to be proud of, and in this Male interview Christie says that it is this drive to support herself as an athlete that encouraged her to seek a legitimate modelling career on the side through Miss England. But I have to ask, isn't flaunting one's fortunate bone structure in order to be ranked above other women a high price to pay in order to support yourself, however much you care about your career?

I just don't KNOW. You see, I really am happy for her. I would like to draw something inspiring from this event. I mean, if Miss England must go on, it's surely better that the sorts of women who win it are competent in other aspects of their life, have careers and ambitions, and don't fit the godforsaken whiteblondebigboobedairhead stereotype.

And what's worse, the runner up, Lance Corporal Kat Hodge is, you guessed it, a soldier. Here's a picture of her holding a bloody great big gun like Tank Girl (with flawless eye make-up, may I add). I mean...I'm a pacifist and everything but...oh God she's a woman holding a gun how can I NOT like her? And did you know she received a commendation for bravery when a punched an Iraqi insurgent who'd just snatched two guns from her truck and was threatening to kill her. Scream!

I'm sorry, Object girls I'm with you, but I just can't help but like these women. If Miss England carries on bestowing grace on women of undue merit, I'm afraid I'm going to go over to the other side. I might even enter, I've definitely got the thighs for it.

I suppose the real test is whether they'll ever get round to giving the award to an outstanding woman who doesn't happen to be gorgeous...

Vagina Island

You can imagine my excitement upon discovering that only a few miles away from our resort in Italy lay Vagina Island (pictured). Vagina Island is one of southern Italy's best kept secrets and was home to the Vulvac tribe led by the famous Queen Ovarian.

Discovered by the Swiss in 1 BC, the ancient island was entirely populated by women , or so they thought, until the said men (obviously women weren't allowed to travel back then!) ventured down into the island's cave in search of gold only to find the Vulvac's treasure was of a male variety. Yes, that's right lady readers, the Vulvacs traded in men. Thoroughly ahead of her time Queen Ovarian overthrew her husband, seized control of the kingdom and ordered the island's tallest mountain to be crafted into the shape of a giant vagina. Women ruled supreme and men were sold to work the land whilst female kind turned her mind to higher pastimes, such as philosophy and art.


Herstorians know all this because of the cave drawings left by said explorers before they were mauled to death by the mythical sea creature known as 'The Blob', which scientists have recently identified as being a modern-day Walrus.

Vagina Island's ecosystem operated in total accordance with nature. There was peace on the land, sister loved sister, and soon enough they developed the technology needed to manufacture sperm so decided to do away with men altogether. Herein lay their fatal error. Never before has the expression 'empires fall from within' rang more true, for when the population's menstrual cycles became synchronised with no men around to dissipate the overwhelming barrage of oestrogen with pure prejudice, oppression and misogyny, the island imploded. The entire city, Phallopianinia, was buried underground, leaving only the famed Mount Vagina in tact.


I'm reading a fascinating study on it the moment by Camile von Vag, who's been desperately trying to raise funds to excavate the site.


Will let you know if I hear anything of note about their ancient culture and way of life, you know.



Been there got the t-shirt!


Toodles!

Jessica Smith - my new fave lady poet

I found this great poet/artist/gal about town through the web and I think she's great! She doesn't just write normal verbal poetry, but also visual poetry and tactile poetry, which even I hadn't heard of before. I think it involves printing poems on cushions or something - I once had a chopping board with some lines from Beckett * for example. I tried to find a bit on her website that wasn't part of her C.V. but I couldn't, so I'm not really sure what it's all about, but she provides some of the best answers to interview questions I have ever seen:

PK: Would people know it if they read your work?

JS: Oh, yes. My entire oeuvre, such as it stands, is one giant love poem. Not to only one person, but rather, an ode to Love. I'm a die-hard Romantic. You saw this silly quiz on my blog, right, "Which of the 9 muses are you?"
When I took the quiz I was Erato.

and

PK: Was that when writing began for you? When you were 14 and all these harsh realities were thrown your way?

JS: No, no. I was writing much earlier. I started writing poems as soon as I could write...I began writing songs, plays, and novels around age 10, and still have many of those things. Although I continued writing novels until I was 15 or so, and I still dabble in prose fiction, I decided at the ripe old age of 12 that I had conquered all forms of writing except poetry and that my major energies would focus on that genre.

Bloody marvellous! And poetry is really where she's at still. I can't show you most of them as they're a bit all-over-the-page-y. You should check out her blog, looktouch.com. I really like this one though, it's called Valentine. Here's some info:

This is a cumulative valentine. The note within indicates the recipient. The box contains: 1. a small red rhinestone heart that I found a few weeks ago; 2. a gold heart-shaped locket my dad gave me; 3. a transparent heart that my neighbor (Mrs. Cole) gave me; 4. a small gold heart that my friend Emily gave me (2-4 are childhood mementos); 5. a cut-out heart from my mom that says "to jessica love, mom"; 6. a heart-shaped red, white and blue pin with one star for a sweetheart to wear for her army-lover during WWII; 7. a pink rhinestone heart I found on the street in Berlin; 8-10. three paper cut-out hearts (I don't remember their significance).


She's almost as barmy as me!

Seriously though I love this and am going to order one and send her the money on Paypal and try to rekindle my love for my useless ex-boyfriend Martin by sending it on to him and pretending I made it. Guys love this sort of stuff, right? And I can cunningly change the name on the slip by simply ripping off the surname. It's like it was meant to be!


* If you're interested, the chopping board said:

Homonum: At that moment, I look out --- and there, before me, as far as the eye could see, were castles, filled with what they my country people call un pape sanguinaire.

Wagram: And what does that mean?

Homonum: The country-folk would translate it as a self-satisfied potato.

Gender Museum...somewhere!

Can anyone tell me where this Gender Museum is? I desperately want to go, but I don't have a clue where it is, and the website is in some strange Cryllic language, help! Answers on a postcard to 'Posie's Abroad Dilemma', the first person to tell me gets a return Ryanair ticket to whichever country it is and a pack of 70p local Marlies on landing.

ALAS!

For all the girls who are hitting the town tonight, don't spend TOO long getting ready, for you may find that your morne-like christall countenances shall be netted over and (Masker-like) cawbe-visarded, with crawling venomous wormes. Why do ye embellish and adorne your flesh with such port and grace, which within some few dayes wormes will devoure in the grave? Why pamperest thou that carren fleshe so high, whiche sometyme doeth stinke and rot on the earth as thou goest?

Also, Max Factor is bloody expensive. Alas!

And Finally...

Two great reasons to remind me why I'm leaving the country and leaving the lot of you in this sink hole...

Melanie Phillips of the Daily Male in "The collapse of sexual norms has destroyed the bulwarks around marriage. And the gay rights agenda is very much part of that process." scandal! The Harpie thinks:

A liberal society should be tolerant of gay people. It is good that social attitudes are now far more relaxed. People's sexuality should be an entirely private matter and should not be the cause of prejudice or, worse still, aggression towards homosexuals.

But is the gay rights agenda really about tolerance, or is it about trying to stop heterosexuality being the behavioural norm?

Posie Rider slits her wrists in newspaper bigotry depression scandal. Read the full article at their website if you, like me, no longer want to live in this country.

Also, Emma Morton of The Sun warns that chaps are doomed because boffings have managed to culture little spermies in petri dishes for baby-grabbing women to harvest instead of putting up with years of tedious, soul-snatching 'bonding' with a man (aka sperm in a stick) before you can convince him to impregnate you.

Morton warns that this sort of madcap science could soon make men 'redundant'. Ha ha! I say sod off boys! I never liked them anyway.

Holidays!

Hey Girlies,

Melody's now officially a Buddhist so I'm going to join her for a week on Holy Isle to finish my latest historical endeavour: Put that Woman Down: The Amazing Adventures of Meredith Lynchfield. No technology allowed so you'll have to do without my witty observations on vaginas and other such things for a time.

PS I'm also in talks with Women's Parliamentary Radio about publishing some of my work, it seems that news of a political maestro with an incredible talent for poignant postulations about stuff that really no one much cares about travels fast online.

HUGS & PUGS

We shall met again,

Posie xx

Fuck off Fedora! I cocking love Venus and Serana Williams

Look, I find Wimbledon incredibly boring, but even I could put aside my frightful memories of school girls tennis (where I first experienced the joy of menstrual blood soaking through a white skirt) to enjoy this weekend's Ladies Finals, and the incredible display of skill, dedication, and downright female bloody brilliance exhibited by the Williams sisters.

Let's put reigning champion Serena against Fedora next year and see who wins, eh? My money's on Serena. And how about not making the Ladies Final the penultimate Saturday spectacle, followed by the terrible climax of the Men's on Sunday? Why not give these athletic stars the triumph they deserve, rather than upstaging them with 'men'? Oh, because you're a chauvinist, Wimbledon. I see.

Hoo-bloody-rah!!

I wrote a poem about a fucking river (for Tom Chivers)

(my new poem)

woman on the pebbles will kill or be killed

asphalt river hear ye

though I have sat where torrents recall no slush

I am drawn by your ceramic explosions

your waves snapped underneath and smoothed over

with clothes laid in respect.

there are beads of patience in this fell river

not where ants carry ants, but where between bites

enamelled flesh can be tapped

to purge freezing oils

where the cuff lavender is brought alive to claw to earth

where we are buried to stay cool and grow white hands

to reach and tuber

and come to fruition and bask without a song.

so be drowned or drown over exposed leaves shaking

restless lover, who’s keeping their feet wet

carved sweat

& toes resplendent knife upwards through satin

to coil imprints around the upright stones

& mark an embrace before evaporation

I am repeating on you.

this body is a factory,

this room, a weaker shade of tea.

molluscs have been sun dried and clasp to the billowing wood

margined by choke

unchinked and unshafted

flecking tremulous

& I had rather root without

than soot in synthetic barbered grass

and smiles of parcelled glue

when there are births of teased and tortured glimpse

to be tweezed or cuticled from the corpse of morn.

I will not dive unless I know the pebbles are not rasped

nor fill a cup with oil

or clothe a gasp in brick

or seek respite in lists and chat

or segway to a revolution, while

my love has gone amongst the flids

to fashion me a yearning -

he was half buried

in tarmac when we met

to make himself chaste.

with his lute fricking he charms scimitars!

he is a silver fish in the backwash!

& how am I to explain

this beetle on my breast?

go easy on the glory hole

cracked forest!

its arc is in tatters

boats full of stones

are held and sunk by knotted necks, green swans

nappies round catkins

the soft rabbit’s fingers of the weeping willow shorn at the wrist

shredded by pikies

spike dog shit three times thus.

this creased and sweated life we live beneath pages, in surfaces

we air condition panic and

would rather waste ink than miss a chance to bite.

(this volume is dirty)

skirts can only rustle now

peel winter off in cracks,

& wrinkling hours, jellied, impoverished

spoilt milk and spilt sleep.

better the life in the bubble of privilege, between pages,

basking fingers in slipped through sun

in the crease in the wall from the half cut window.

better the cack femme manages fate

than banal judges grid us to oblivion.

De Ridier Battle Helmet!

THE British Musuem have sent me this image of the Ridier Battle Hat atop a willing intern, complete with dried entrails of a Turk from circa the disasterous Fourth Crusade. Pwoar! I just can't wait to take that bad boy out with me to Truckles tonight! Feministe fashions bar rumba!

Comtesse de Saint-Ridier

I found the strangest thing when I arrived home the other day - a letter from the British Museum informing me of an archaeological artifact uncovered near my ancient ancestral home in Hampshire.

Being a fervent feminist-Marxist-occasional Maoist (as a teen), I naturally shy away from my patrician roots. However owing to the exciting content of the letter in question I feel obliged to equip you with a short her-story of my great ancestoress the Comtesse de Saint-Ridier, aka the Amazonian of Hampshire.

The Comtesse was a bold woman who lived between 1638-1684 - that's right - during the English Civil War. Her husband the Comte de Ridier (of French origin) was sent into battle and perished in the ballads of dead men's cries on the field of battle (N.B. great creative description - use in prose). Naturally the two had been Republicans who strictly adhered to the codes of the Bible, so that each time they whipped, pillaged or ate a servant they would instantly to the priest confess their sins and be most joyously accepted back into the fold of sheep.

When the Irish launched an unprecedented attack upon the family castle in 1642 the Comtesse defended the fortress for at least two days. She became know as the Amazonian of Hampshire and called upon her maids to take to arms. They wore bright bronze helmets and nothing but bloomers, boots and facepaint (painting to the right is an artist's impression).

The Irish surrounded the mighty Ridier battlement and resolved to starve her out, but following reports from her chambermaid of a secret tunnel running between the grand ball room and a nearby dairy farm the Comtesse proceeded to defy the enemy by tipping the castle's entire supply of potatoes over their lepricorn heads. However, after celebrating their clever coup the Comtesse asked to be shown the tunnel in question and was most agitated to discover that she had misheard: the maid had actually said 'fairy charm'. It turned out the young gal was having her period at the time and had turned quite quite mad. The Comtesse swore never to trust in the sisterhood again.

Needless to say the poor maid was whipped and exchanged with the Irish for five potatoes that were soon consumed and twelve hours later the Comtesse most willingly surrendered to the brutes. She later retired to Herefordshire, where her legend preceded her, never again to trust women. How very different the Riders are today indeed.

And now the most exciting news! The British Museum have unearthed the original feather-plumed hemet in which she fought the Irish. Of course I was most flattered by the prospect of seeing my great ancestress' head regalia stand alongside the Rosetta stone, however the museum seem to consider it "of relatively little histroical value" and so have offered it to moi!

This is fantastic news, although it has come somewhat late: I must now wait an entire year for Ascot. Can a lady still wear a giant girl-skull hat of pure bronze and ruby ostrich pearl to such events? No, maybe a mere woman could not but a feminist can!

So glad to be home. Toodles xx

PS must have a matching one made for Emmeline Pankhurst - she gets awful frock envy ...