Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Poem about Breasts

Pornography, pornography!
You’ve got a lot to answer for.
You’re probably the reason why
I like it when girls call me whore
and grab my hair, and slap my face,
but more than this, much worse than this,
you’ve spread misinformation
on the topic of our tits.

And I don’t mean just the tits of trans girls,
though you’ve got some odd ideas
of how we get them, call them ‘fake’
- but have a feel: no implants here!
Or are they artificial as they
sprung up after hormones?
Well, tell me, please, exactly
how your girlfriend’s girls were grown?

No – this breast-based boondoggle  is a bane to trans and cis,
and the thing that really bothers me is this:
ask a fella if he’ll draw a dame without her vest
and see what shapes he uses
for the front part of her chest,

and what will you see? Beach-balls! Spheres!
That white thing from The Prisoner
twice over, faceless back-up heads
too big for any milliner!
But, just as perfect circles
aren’t found anywhere in nature,
I’m afraid I have to tell you boys
there’s far more variation

in the contents of our bras than are
allowed for in your narrow chest-aesthetic,
that reduces what’s near-infinite
to mere dialectic
between ‘pert’ and ‘buxom’. But:
no blame. It took me time to get it,

and if I’m honest, guys,
I never really got it ‘til
I rubbed gel on my thigh,
and found that, where I used to glance,
I couldn’t keep from staring:
only now I wasn’t ogling or perving
but comparing,

seeing how I measured up,
and I won’t lie: I’ll tell you
from the bottom of my B-cup,
I’m not on the winning side.
I’m still a noob to boobs! A chestal virgin! Not well-versed
in how to lift and separate
or generate
a cleavage, I’m
when a bosom’s heaving,

and I envy women who are blessed with great big
aurioles, while mine just skirt my nipples
like a pair of poxy holes...
but knowing mine aren’t perfect
has made me much more aware
of all the imperfections I
and other women share.

We women feel the same way
when we’re checking out each other:
the girl who’s firm and perky knows
that she will never smother
faces underneath her chest:
while the one who’s more endowed,

that that lass reckons favoured,
is wishing for the freedom
of a bra less engineered,
a back that aches less, and that guys
might maybe, just occasionally
look her in the eyes,

or at least, if you must look
so clearly at her chest,
then don’t let the sole criteria
by which each breast’s assessed
be where her pups are placing
on the Jordan-Moss Continuum,
and whether, in a centrefold,
they’d excite your residuum,

but look at them! Just look at them
as if you’ve never seen
the inside of a strip club
or a line of beauty queens,
we’re not one shape,
we’re loose and tight and pointy,
a variable phenomenon
to baffle Merleau-Ponty,
some bounce around Space Hopper-style,
while some are far from jumpy,
(and whatever shape they are,
be sure to check them if they’re lumpy)
spheres, ellipsoids, cylinders, and I will even swear
that I’ve seen some whose strawberry creams appear
to be square – and that’s alright! It’s great!
Don’t you boys dare to be disgusted,
because, sirs, I implore you to recall what Cornershop said,

and if you accept the premise the best pillow is a bosom,
look at a woman’s bed and you’ll find every kind of cushion,
because we know that sleep is better
when there’s comforters and bolsters,
and you’ll find as much variety here in our boulder-holsters,

so let’s hear it for the wobbly ones, let’s hear it for the tubes,
let’s hear it for the loners, and the chests with both removed,
and let’s hear it for the pot-pourri, the glorious plenitude

the motley mammary miscellany, the majesty of boobs!

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