Myths of the feminine are shattered, here,

in a uniquely grotesque fashion.  Venus is not

dead (could feminism kill her?)-- instead

she is disfigured, unsightly moles on one

or both cheeks.  Lumpy thighs and flabby arms

parade themselves as sex symbol parody;

the sight of grannypanties makes us rethink

the delineations of laughter and lust.

 

It’s about honor.  Just try marrying off seven

whores, he says.  Can whores be loved? Not

if we don’t love them.  And we won’t, unless

given no choice.  War and honor are choices...

 

The feminine is reinforced only to be the more

strongly rejected.  The seven beauties must not

show their eyes: look down, or be mistaken

for cheap little tarts.  Here comedy flirts 

with misogyny, in Pasquali’s playpen.

 

Lookalike women enliven stereotypes, until

the organ grinder’s daughter, forced to sing