She Walks in, Ugly

When sex was weaponised, and not
as in the caveman sense
of girls on shoulders hot
with hair and sweat, a recompense
was that old lie that anyone
can get some fun.

Destined souls, and all that crap.
The pictures brim with leggy sorts,
who have the day won for them by a chap
whose belly never sags, nor waist consorts
with any welcoming fleshpots.

She’s looks enough to make a vegan drive
a semi through a petting zoo,
and he’ll sweat like an English duke
on being questioned live
about his taste in prostitutes.
They both are envied absolutes.

The left-hand path in this instance
decrees that beauty is ugly,
that ugly is beauty. A happenstance
of human skin and mind
assembles in the daemon dream,
the heathen answer to perfection’s kind.

Whether you’re bad with women, gay,
too flat of chest or fat of thigh,
too underhung or oversold
by flattering angles, a bitch or sissified,
at least grotesquerie stands out.
I’d say God loves you still... Don’t hang about.