Tuesday, April 7, 2015

on the reproductive anatomy of centaurs (or: mice and things I get distracted by)

Female centaurs should not have breasts. They - breasts - are a second set of mammary glands, and less useful than the first.

...Or would they be? Maybe, now that I'm really thinking about it, the chest location is the more useful location, given the child's shape. The upright torso would have an easier time getting to the chest than twisting underneath to get to the udders.

So, would the pelvic mammary glands reduced to a basically useless bit of decor, like nipples on human men? Or would they disappear entirely? And if they did disappear, would that anatomical region just look like the horsey version of a barbie doll: blank?

Oh right, I was supposed to be posting a poem. From yesterday. Or even the day before yesterday. Or... well, whatever. My calendar is hiding, probably fearing I'll realize how long it took me to get around to posting a new poem.

Well, I do have one, as it happens. It was written from a picture prompt in writing class. We had quite a few pictures to choose from, and yes, one of them was a busty centauress. I couldn't have possibly taken her seriously. At the same time, I couldn't have whipped out some lines for her because I was too busy taking her entirely too seriously. So I chose a mouse.

I had no idea it was a book cover until I found it online. The image we had in class didn't have the writing.
I think I have to read this book now. 

Our prompt was a little different this time (aside from being a picture). We were given a list of statements to complete, e.g., "I am... I wonder... I hear..." and we were to complete them as though we were the character depicted. So, the first to words of each of the following lines, was provided for me, as part of the prompt. Here's what I came up with:

I am the Don Juan of Mice. 
I wonder whether you shall fall at my hands, bested by my skill as a  swordsmouse. 
I hear in high frequency. 
I see in fine detail, but only in certain colors. 
I want to defeat all challengers, large and small.
I save every last penny; Brie is an expensive habit. 
I touch this feather in my hat, for luck. 
I feel like I could conquer the world.
I pretend I am not balding; the hat helps.
I worry about funding my Brie habit. 
I understand there is something odd about you, but that's okay, I don't mind. 
I dream of growing my goatee long enough to braid.
I try everything, at least twice. 
I hope you do not get in my way, because you seem nice. 

So that's not much of a poem, in my opinion.
Here's the poem I took from all that:

I am the daringest of Mice. 
Don't wonder that you shall fall at my paws:
I hear in high frequency, to better hear your cries of defeat. 
I see in fine detail, to better see your loss.

I am the choosiest of Mice.
I'll rescue a fine Brie
while snubbing the lowly Swiss.
One doesn't get to my rank
by slumming, you know.

I am the handsomest of Mice.
The feather in my hat should tell you so.
It's lucky, this mark of a conquerer,
and I touch it to remind myself
that I'm not really balding.
As long as I keep the hat on.

I understand
there is something odd about you,
but that's okay, I don't mind. 
I hope you do not get in my way,
because you seem nice.


In other words, I got nothing for this one.
But there it is. All done and ready for a chorus.

Shared with the real toads, in their quest for songs. 

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