species: sadly separate (for those of us who are, unfortunately, two of a kind)

“whalebone’s out, but spandex is in
the tools of fashion change
but the impulse to contort and control one’s physique remains the same”
so said a Mortimer Zukerman tidbit, which went on to promote
various “contributions” to reshaping the female form
quite an interesting take on human butchery
and their slice ‘em and dice ‘em Caucasoid standards of beauty
yes, indeed, our species has learned to covet
those monstrous nips and tucks
the vacuous removal of excess capital waste
and silicon implants and vaginal reductions
(which others call mastectomies and genital mutilation)
and, yes, we grind our precious yellowed ivories
down to sharp. inhuman fangs
so that they may be replaced with shiny synthetic symbols of purity
and, yes, we tune in and watch your channel zero
and, yes, we buy expensive skin creams, laxatives, diet pills
and all the various “take-up-less-space” contraptions
sold to despondent daughters during after-school commercials
sandwiched in between crude carnivals which you deem “talk shows”
and, yes, we polish and we buff and we tone and flex solo
and, yes, we dye and die each time
and, yes, we burn, baby, burn
and pump and hump to the rhythm of nothing
so that you all may gaze and gawk
at once human forms firmly encased in SPF 35
yes, indeed, our species has learned to covet
those wonder bras and push-up butts
but you and yours
you don’t need no so-called super-shaper brief
no wonder jock or six-inch, steel-pin rods for you,
my testosteroned dear
for your dull, venal brain protrudes most efficiently
at the slightest glimmer of mannequin skin
and you need no extra tools to make us run to you
because we are of a different species, some of you and I
you want in so badly you can almost taste it c*m … ming
while we just want out so sadly
(of your padded, poisoned cell of passion)
you can almost hear us running
you just want it in … then out … then far and away
but we would be content if you just tried to go the distance
you know … far deeper than what you’re thinking about
you know … so as to meet the very core of our true clout
but, alas, we are of a different species, some of you and I
even so, it’s a proven fact that your precious testosterone
would have no meaning
without our priceless estrogen
and that your power resides
in millions of minute infantile forms
faring war amongst themselves
on a feral moment’s notice
just to claim the right
to pierce our sleeping Madonna yolk
a sacred sagacious substance
senior to your own
and not at all swayed by your primitive bone
you know, Lorena Bobbit hit it right on the head
when she did what she did
and said what she said
because she proved to all the world
that what really makes your kind tick what sadly controls you
owns you is simply what you cradle between your legs
and, yes, that dreadful dr. gray made an interesting point
when he said that we come from different planets
but, his malicious misogynist supposition
that “when men talk its for one reason only: to "convey information”
implying, of course,
as does that asinine Allstate insurance ad
that we must resort to hysterical outbursts in order to be heard
but I posit that haranguing
is neither a habitual nor genetic trait
but, rather,
a natural reaction
to talk which often falls upon deaf ears
yet another defect
for which no amount of foreplay
can ever compensate
23 chromosomes
and galaxies apart
yet we do love you
and, yet,
we understand
all too painfully
that what really moves your kind’s mind
so that you can never be believed
nor trusted to act rationally
but to resort to lies
and lies and more lies
just so you can get some
and cum
and then go on to snag
and then brag
about the next one is
that we are, sadly,
of a different species,
some of you and I
and it is your card-carrying member[ship]
and devotion to that universal primal club that, sadly,
makes us two of a kind
and it is that same impenetrable venal allegiance
that forces us
to grant you
temporary visas

© 1994 by Marina Ortiz

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