Ms. New Booty. Ms. (no)Body.
That’s what you discern in her. No: on her, not in her.
You look at her, your slapdash, whiplashed object, the way she looks at clothes and cloths:
feckless, meaningless surface-level garments; she’s your utter Venus.
Venus. A lifeless, limbless lump of apathetic antiquity.
A marble monster of meticulous, conscientious sexual tension.
A photo opportunity, devoid of meaningful human exchange—no change or range.
An estranged, colorless, powerless, emotionally-fried hunk of ass. Gosh, I meant mass.
Venus. Much more than the pride beneath the esoteric pyramid cloaked in mad city lights,
she’s omnipresent; ask the 1400’s Savonarola-driven Italian who glorified her nudes, or the
1500’s erotica-driven Italian who made her this post’s cover. The long, lanky list: ludicrous.
Saturation imposed on her polluted space, her molded stoic gaze can only clue the scorn.
Venus. A dazzling pearl fixed between the lively messenger and the familiar pale blue dot,
bruised, boiled, and bombarded by legions of fiery, fierce, furious balls—for several eons.
A mortal crux of organic beauty, clouded by a poisonous atmosphere—under the pressure.
At 500+ degrees Celsius, she has an undoubtedly hot body, but that’s not an important datum.
Venus. A solitary, stationary, sanitary trapper, she deals with lotus flowers and hot fuss.
You spread skewed, defamatory fiction about her, lying that she sprawls for mice and men,
but she’s just slamming her trap on insects and arachnids—a reckoner settling for rations.
Knives out, flustered by her carnivore skills, you hurled her under your evil house of cards.
Venus. An ace killing legend. A web of muscles whose serene strokes are so consummately
perfect that distant alien girls—using their florid screens—celebrate them everywhere,
above, on, and below our giant planets 25,000-mile spanning house-belt.
But wait, this champ gets questions about her weight, plus all the love goes to her sibling.
Venus. The Venus above isn’t just a Wimbledon star (or a planet, or a plan
t, or a plan).
Venus, AKA Ms. (no)Body, is only 11 keyboard taps away from your and my evil treefingers,
and we see her videotaped projections above and below many adjuvant belts everywhere.
A vain Rapunzel, she pleases vainy viewers vividly, daily—only to be erased from web histories.
Venus. Ms. (no)Body. Weary of man-constructed stereotypes, she crawls under the shadows.
She traces her pimples—delineated by agonizingly potent concentration—every morning.
She fights the evasive glass-ceiling, resisting the same groups that deny climate change.
She studies the “i” and eye of her reflected glass twin, pondering a dream of impartiality.
She is Ms. Body, 12+ years a slave running in an unconcerned, photo-shopped maze,
a lost form of firm “beauty,” spitefully pimped instead as a big firm’s big firm “booty.”
She is Ms. Nobody, for the recipe of her tangible self was forever lost post-production;
only Robert Kenner knows her vexation as a caged, genetically-altered, egg-bearing chick.
She is Ms. No Body, for her withered physicality is so ever-present that it’s never present;
lacking presence, she appears only as presents—packaged directly off the assembly line.
She is Ms. “No Body,” for her institutionalized body is a perpetually-scrutinized drama;
sizzling pounds the way men slice pubes and slip into pubs, she dreads having “no body.”
She is Ms. “No Bod”y, for her canny mind and sweet disposition aren’t worth six letters;
trapped inside the walls of her “bad bod,” she avoids the condensations of condescension.
She is Ms. No, Body, for she tells her body no, begging like Joan for a better facial facade,
each day, shaking a fist at her JC guy and bedecking herself with a dark cosmetic white lie.
She is Mrs. (no)Body, for the androcentric village in which she was born married her off;
a flawless, maturing attraction—gifted, by her own brother, to a wanker like Khal Drogo.
She is Mrs. Only she knows her name, while others eye her as the tributary of a man’s love;
owning the reputedly futile task of upgrading kids into adults, she still loses blame games.
Over 3.7 billion of you—I included—are the archetypal heads of society. The Mortal Man.
You twist a revolver in her and play Russian roulette with your every present tense word.
You’re the frustration that rises like steam from her shower (her time for a cleared mind).
Your eyes are missiles, and you dismantle her world every time you look south of that chin.
There are also 3.7 billion Venuses out there—each and every one of you cubist dream women.
You see subtle sexism in Earth’s static dialogue—all lost in translation due to patriarchy.
You throw solitary lock keys into the Seine, theorizing the extinction of men who can
breathe, forget life’s fixed incomes, and always compliment your soul.
You stagger around in those freaky heels, working extra hard to placate corporate hawks,
and you’re compelled to satisfy an extra business criterion at every single meeting: looks.
You lock the streets with pads and pepper spray; you endure monthly battles with the
unsightly foes of commas; and you—no, we all—will defeat your ignorant oppressors.
I wrote this poem at 4 am while procrastinating my studies for a psychology test. Wanted to mention that somewhere ’cause it was a funny experience. Also, obviously I used a ton of random literary employments, allusions, references, etc.—so if you all enjoy this post then I might detail the poem later (though I’m sure the thematic messages, namely both the objectification and subjugation of women, are clear). Finally, as I said on my Facebook, these 900 words have over 150 subtle references to specific art, history, films, shows, music, modern media, literature, and new scientific info, plus lots of other abnormalities. Look closely at everything when you find yourself bored, congratulate yourself if you find some of the double references, and consider writing some of your own creative poetry if you haven’t already. That’s my final encouragement.
Thanks for reading and please squeeze those precious seconds of your day to like, comment, share, and follow if possible.