Transphobic Poetry - Post your transphobic poetry

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This one I have composed, in the style of Macka B, the charming Jamaican gentleman from YouTube who raps about vegetables and healthy eating.

For best results, read in a lovely Caribbean accent.

Ellen Page, Ellen Page,
She look much older dan her age.
Cut off her tits - it's all de rage!
Ellen Page, Ellen Page,
Got molested by David Cage.
 
A troon goes out to see the town
Is met with womens laughter
To them he is but just a clown
Is scarred forever after
 
Carol Ann Duffy is my favourite poet and although I doubt 'from Mrs Tiresias' was intended as a trans-critical piece, it really makes me smile.

Anyway, before that, here is my own contribution, in the popular form of haiku:

Some guy took her home
Thought that she was well aroused
Jesus: pus and blood!

All I know is this:
he went out for his walk a man
and came home female.

Out the back gate with his stick,
the dog;
wearing his gardening kecks,
an open-necked shirt,
and a jacket in Harris tweed I'd patched at the elbows myself.

Whistling.

He liked to hear
the first cuckoo of spring
then write to The Times.
I'd usually heard it
days before him
but I never let on.

I'd heard one that morning
while he was asleep;
just as I heard,
at about 6 p.m.,
a faint sneer of thunder up in the woods
and felt
a sudden heat
at the back of my knees.
He was late getting back.

I was brushing my hair at the mirror
and running a bath
when a face
swam into view
next to my own.

The eyes were the same.
But in the shocking V of the shirt were breasts.
When he uttered my name in his woman's voice I passed out

*

Life has to go on.

I put it about that he was a twin
and this was his sister
come down to live
while he himself
was working abroad.

And at first I tried to be kind;
blow-drying his hair till he learnt to do it himself,
lending him clothes till he started to shop for his own,
sisterly, holding his soft new shape in my arms all night.
Then he started his period.

One week in bed.
Two doctors in.
Three painkillers four times a day.
And later
a letter
to the powers that be
demanding full-paid menstrual leave twelve weeks per year.
I see him still,
his selfish pale face peering at the moon
through the bathroom window.
The curse, he said, the curse.

Don't kiss me in public,
he snapped the next day,
I don't want folk getting the wrong idea.

It got worse.

After the split I would glimpse him
out and about,
entering glitzy restaurants
on the arms of powerful men -
though I knew for sure
there'd be nothing of that
going on
if he had his way -
or on TV
telling the women out there
how, as a woman himself,
he knew how we felt.
His flirt's smile.

The one thing he never got right
was the voice.
A cling peach slithering out from its tin.

I gritted my teeth.

And this is my lover, I said,
the one time we met
at a glittering ball
under the lights,
among tinkling glass,
and watched the way he stared
at her violet eyes,
at the blaze of her skin,
at the slow caress of her hand on the back of my neck;
and saw him picture
her bite,
her bite at the fruit of my lips,
and hear
my red wet cry in the night
as she shook his hand
saying How do you do:
and I noticed then his hands, her hands,
the clash of their sparkling rings and their painted nails.
 
am i object or objective, now?
i stare at my naked form. it stares
back, unabashed, breasts in full form,
mother's bounty rolling off it in
waves; she kissed my newborn head
and held me to her chest,
my downy hair. it cascades; long, curling.

shimmering with sun's light and
spring's dew that ebbs on nearby petals.
no more am i mothers' infant, i am yet to become her.
my countenance is that of motherhood; of
unbridled sexuality that declares myself with tenderness.

you, you;
of all the things. of all the creatures that god has created,
i pity him for deciding for your kind to exist.
i pity your deformities - in the same way
you may kiss an old dog before it gets put down
but there is no nostalgia to be had with you.
bent double, hunched onto hackles, you
spit, shriek, slackjawed and gormless.
fear. fear is what you exist off of;

you haunt the dreams and aspirations of women
brutal mockery and a perverted inversion
talon clawed and with banshee scream
saying words of gentleness,
of flowers and perfumeries, of mother's milk;
yours is spoiled. yours is poison.

a caricature of what woman is.
an object of it,
and when women are objective;
about their thoughts, their feelings, aspirations,
hopes and dreams,
you declare our very existence as an enemy.

sorry for the spergy poem. wrote this in 20 min or so.
 
There once was a tomboy who cut off her titties,
As advised by her shrink from a left-leaning city,
She went under the knife,
No longer a wife,
Since her husband sought someone more pretty,

After 3 months of T, she named herself "Ayden,"
And soon found herself in poor health and debt-laden,
The "teet yeet" was half assed,
Though her friends claimed she passed,
They lied because they were handmaidens,

Her voice was now croaky, yet Ayden felt hollow,
"This isn't enough! I need to get phallo,"
Surgeons cut up the tranny,
Glued skin to her fanny,
It was just like a dick but pus-yellow,

Ayden's yaoi delusions were almost fulfilled,
She needed to fuck but without getting killed,
She hooked up with a twink,
Who was too drunk to think,
Not disclosing her status as part of the thrill,

The drunkard tried best to keep Ayden captivated,
But her dick was still flaccid, which left them frustrated,
Ayden got an idea,
Blindfolded the queer,
And squeezed her scrotum until it was inflated,

But disaster struck before Ayden got laid,
A foul smell filled the room- the man was betrayed!
Ayden's rotdog came loose,
So the man tied a noose,
She soon followed, dying of AIDS,

Ayden's parents distraught, they went into mourning,
Trans friends left her service, calling it "boring,"
"Rest in peace Alyssa, our only daughter,"
The priest sprayed her coffin with holy water,
"We should've never shown you those Japanese drawings."
 
There once was a troon from Istanbul
Who soliloquied to what's left of his tool
"You've stolen my wealth and ruined my health
And now you won't pee, you old fool."



Apologies to Kurt Vonnegut
 
There was a square Chinky called Fong
Who went crazy and chopped off his dong
While lacking consent
Had a slight accident
And put dildos where they don't belong

There once was a Pooner called Page
Who cut off her tits in a rage
But whilst brave and stunning
She's not in the running
For a role on the screen, or the stage

"I'm sorry", Ms Rowling began,
"To ruin your gender-swap plan"
"It's all very tragic"
"But no kind of magic"
"Can make a woman out of a man"
 
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