Inconsequential Flesh

Why does the Y try to fly, unzipped from its body’s faculties?

Hello All

It’s the time of the month when I deliver you a new-born poem.

Deep breaths, please – especially the men.

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Photo by CoWomen on Unsplash

The ‘Y’ Of Inconsequential Flesh

Descent from the retro-peritoneal,
visible between paired gluteals.
Why does the Y try to fly,
unzipped from its body’s faculties,
and not remain snuggled
into its cousin kidney,
like the X stamped ovary?

Temperature, my arse.
Whenever those little packaged devils
dare to pass,
it’s only as a show of bravado
to the other hung-lows.
Not a come-hither entreaty 
to entertain the ugly scene below.

An untugged embryonic prolapse
of inconsequential flesh,
it dangles pointlessly between the legs.
Unbidden urination 
its final remaining test, 
surges of prostatic restraint
preceding that flushed, foolish face.

A woman wants to know,
when it finally grows 
—cued by the requisite, ‘Oh, go on then’—
if the operator has a clue
on what to do with her
guarded, secreted apparatus
to make fickle fantasy come true.

Flagging red and blue, the risen expectation
hovers at a bared minimum,
tempting a weary ‘can’t be bothered’. 
But a slipping plimsol line of desire ignores
that warm cup of cocoa,
and a book’s final chapter,
beckoning brightly instead
to re-imagined pleasant lands,
set far beyond the squeaking and moaning
of a slightly tortured bedstead.

Because it only takes one
to ensure the job is done.
Not a fluid army obsessing
that volume will overcome
defective quality, 
or sincere entreaties
to false ‘forever mine’ fealties.

But eventually,
no matter feelings or frequency
—or chemically-induced longevity—
the withering of the inconsequence, 
and forgetting of the show
of pregnant possibility,
will ensure enticing vows only
further consummate the tendency 
to an unquestioned, absent ‘Y’
as the future of our fecundity.

Photo by Lindsey LaMont on Unsplash