feminism

the specious male privilege of ogling
to call it art is a sophistic deceit, you assert
like a school ma’am dishing out the rule
you should have marched in naked
flaunting your assets in all their glory
declaring this is what you become
an old cow who’s been is milked too often
your pudendum displayed like a wound
obsessively scratched by men

he stops caring when he refuses to witness
crimes he committed in the sex war
which had pig me considering a harem
the spectacle of raving fallopians rearing
from centuries of somnambulant moil
the nightmare of warrior you, a latter day Boudica
afore an army of breasts and triangles of pubic hair
the male species vanquished like infidels
their false god proved impotent

a pity you missed his lardy complexion
his angular pose rooted on the edge of balance
a cluster of anemic fruit forlornly dangling
as though they survived of a season of drought
too busy nursing your paranoia, like a puritan
on a crusade against carnal love and foul idolatry
what did you expect, Kate Hathaway simmering
or Kate Winslet, lips puckered, legs akimbo
offering the weight of her breasts