A Conversational Poem Dedicated to R.T. (long due)

And then there’s us – the true misogynists of the lot.
We like to disassociate ourselves
rather disdainfully
from those “delusional men who think they’re women just by gobbling
down a handful of NHS pills”.
We’ve had an expensive education. And they’re so hopelessly pathetic.
We’re not like that.
Not at all. We’re better than that.
To us, femininity is the ultimate patriarchal luxury.
A nip here, a tuck there.

Shave this naughty jutting bone back to front,
pump in that lovely dodgy silicone I want.

Much like when we dreamt we’d one day be able to afford that (rigorously red) Ferrari, a villa with terraced gardens on the French Riviera and that tiny, cute, sexy, eternally compliant wife of 24 and… oops, we must have got too carried away with the brutal fantasy at some point – for we have become our total body fetish.

And now what
remains
us of that disappointing reverie?
The ever promising, elusive pleasure to scalpel through others’ self-esteem.

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