Naked Battlefield. {poetry}
{Photo © Lone Morch}
Lately, I’ve noticed that…
Movie stars are fed up,
being projected upon,
unreal, unattainable bodies,
and still, their faces and curves
gleam with pride on the covers,
staged for the viewers envy,
if only this was me.
A model on a white horse, her
skin smooth, shiny, no traces of life,
I’m a feminist statement, she says,
leave it or take it, I show myself naked,
sexual as I wish, because no one owns me,
and I owe no one, and I wonder,
who are the images for?
Women flock to photographers
with dreams of glamorous vision of self
preferring the lie to the real, because,
real bodies are so frightening unreal,
fuck the disappointment, better suck it in,
smile stiff, breaths withheld and chin up,
perpetually frozen, and I wonder,
when do photos give or take?
{Photo © Lone Morch}
See me, see me, every day another
glorious me, look, did you look, won’t you
like, like, like me? Otherwise, how can I
like myself, how can I exist? Virtually,
life is but an afterthought, with no idea,
who we’ll be to each other, beyond
the likes and dislikes.
Women, wrinkles, winged arms and
wide smiles grace magazine covers,
see us age with grace, and so can you,
everywhere, opinions about women’s
bodies and how to be with them,
deal with them, show or, god forbid,
not show them.
{Photo © Lone Morch}
On buses, languid women, two breasts
exposed in sculpted perfection, whispering:
they could be yours, while in a nearby cafe,
a breastfeeding woman is refused
service and sent away, because here,
we want no gross motherhood
on display.
A group of feminist fighters,
write political statements on their
bare breasts and show up at unlikely places,
their faces covered, bare breasts battling,
in the streets, in the government, on the stages,
their demands written on the wall,
who the fuck stole my orgasm?
{Photo © Lone Morch}
A band of real women walk the street,
naked with wobbly thighs, waistlines hidden
in folds, large sagging breasts, tiny perky breasts,
long skinny legs, stretch marks and scars,
this is what we look like, this is who we are,
don’t look away now, see us, accept us, so
we can accept ourselves.
Meanwhile, 100 naked women prepare to
greet Mr. Trump at the national convention,
naked in the name of art, a bare claim to ownership,
and in Copenhagen, a photographer sues the
authorities for limiting her artistic right to show
naked photos of young women, genitals on view,
outdoor at the city center, and I wonder,
when does public display empower
and disempower?
A woman shows her naked photos on the web,
to counter her ex’s revenge porn, rising up
by choosing to show herself, a bare female
body doing natural things, hoping to erase
the loathsome feeling of private moments
stolen, intimacy abused, boundaries crosses,
now a naked battle, who can we trust?
{Photo © Lone Morch}
Young women hide their bodies in pools, gyms,
and on the beaches, avoiding the gaze of strangers,
yet, freely they show naked parts on the web, and
humiliate themselves by dancing on the bar for a drink
with the oh-so-VIP boys, and take leads from young men
who expect them to act like porn stars, demanding blow jobs
and anal sex, all before the first kiss. Who cares
about first kisses anymore?
A woman at 55 meets a man her own age,
they hit it off, but after 3 nights together and
no sex, she wonders. Your wrinkly skin just
doesn’t turn me on, he says, I’m used to
younger bodies, but hey, wear these nylons
and I’ll touch you alright. Just a minor detail,
he says, don’t make it a case, one aging
body dismissing the aging body of another.
{Photo © Lone Morch}
Sexualized, objectified, pornofied, and a
whole lot of other fied, why and who’s doing
it to whom we cannot really say anymore, but always,
the body, used, abused, claimed, possessed, exposed,
ridiculed, hated, coveted, desired and definitely
required, in this endless battle, do we remember
what we are fighting about?
And now, the battle has moved inside, festering
in our minds and hearts, grinning as we torture ourselves,
with the same shit. Time and again, we sacrifice
our erotic, divine nature and that of the other
on the altar of this… mindfuck. What is it you want?
My dignity displaced, my body cannot be
replaced, and as I become aware of the missing gap
between my thighs, I wonder, where will this battle
take you and me, somewhere new?
{Photo © Lone Morch}
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For years, Lone Mørch has been getting women naked through her photography, and now, she’s getting naked on the page, with her memoir Seeing Red. As a writer, visionary artist and freedom activist, she engages your heart, hands, mind and gut in sensory experiences and creative explorations. In her work, she awakens and aligns with your sacred path. Her vision is to catalyze your creative metamorphosis, and help you reclaim your soul, sexuality and personal sovereignty. Find out more about Lone at LoneMorch.com and enjoy more of her work at Lolo’s Boudoir. You can also connect with her on Facebook and Twitter.
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