Siren Song

by Gabrielle Everall

The male academic says I must refuse the end of the world, but people have already died.
When I watch the sea, when I watch the tide, I sing. 
I am singing. 
I am singing a song of death.
I lure old white men to their demise.
There has been much death.
I am here to guide the dead.
Will the old white men make it to heaven?
Demeter gave me wings so I could travel through this hell.
I am singing a song of death caused by the virus.
An angry trickster of a Goddess, 
She always goes straight for the balls.
My song is bittersweet, making old white male bodies fatigued
They say my song of disease is ‘the forerunner of death and corruption.’ 

All my life, I have been in lockdown. 
But I swim through the wire mesh into the ocean with the rising tide.

Can I go outside?
Can I wear a mask?
Can I catch public transport?
Can I walk?
Can I run?
Can I exercise?
Can I touch?
Can I kiss?
Can I fuck?
Could I ever?

I swim, I swim, I swim.

What does the history of literature mean if it is the end of the world?

If you give me an inch, I will take a mile.

I am forbidden from travelling more than two miles from my home.

I am sick of the omnipresence of the pandemic.

I am glad I have to wear a mask so no one will see my face.

Hiding everything behind masks. 

Why can’t I face this ‘reality’?

Why am I so self-absorbed?

Why do I laugh in the face of death?

Somehow Demeter became Dementia.
My mother has Dementia

She lives in the West

Her sun sets on the other side

of my world

The borders are closed

I cannot see my mother.

Let me cross the borders 

So I can see my mother

So I can speak to my mother

So I can embrace my mother

My mother is the ocean

The earth has had enough

I swim, I swim, I swim

The tide is rising. 
It is a Bolshevik tide. 
A red tide. 
A feminist tide, drowning old 
white men. 
Goodbye Boris Johnson. Goodbye Peter Dutton. Goodbye Donald Trump. 
A tide is crashing against 
the rocks like the global market economy. 
The stiff suits of businessmen 
through, waist high in water. 
The flood brings disease, but I like self-isolation. 
is good reason to self-isolate. 
So many assholes to isolate from. 
The more events 
cancelled, the more secretly relieved I felt. 

I first spied the apocalypse when I saw a 
line of masked people lined up outside Royal Melbourne Hospital. 

We can no longer 
use the libraries. 
We can no longer borrow books. 
Where are the books? 

I commit the 
crime of scratching my nose and wiping my eyes. 

The feminist disease is nature’s 
way of saying, 
slow down, take care of yourself and look at what’s happening around 

The Mother Feminist Goddess Virus
rocks the Patriarchy

A society that forbids women
from having sexual pleasure
Isn’t that the definition of Patriarchy?

That constructs sadistic technologies
of grooming and deportment

That turns women against each other

Patriarchy succeeds in never letting me

The Mother Feminist Goddess Virus
smashes the Patriarchy

Now I have the pleasure of the ocean

and it will rise

I swim I swim I swim I swim

The Patriarchal catch-cry in Victoria is ‘staying apart keeps us together’.

Patriarchy always keeps women at arm’s length.

1.5 metres, a wingspan, my wingspan.  

Like a warrior, I am prepared to die 

if it means the end of this Patriarchal hell hole.

The threat of the apocalypse that covid represents can topple the patriarchy. Goodbye Donald Trump.The Australasian Association Writing Program’s call for papers was on the theme of ‘rising tides’. I needed provoking to write during the stagnancy of covid. I wrote a short piece called ‘The feminist tide’ that got published in Meniscus. I added this piece to ‘Siren Song’. A siren can be a subversive figureas she guides the old white men to their demise. My friend would joke that covid was a goddess virus.

Gabrielle Everall is a Melbourne based poet and writer. She has published two books of poetry and completed a PhD in Creative Writing.
One paragraph from ‘Siren Song’ has previously been published in Meniscus 2020.

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