Venus of Willendorf
I carved her body out of a potato, knowing that I will never have her luscious thighs. Her body is plump and full of life while mine is that of a soggy French fry left at the bottom of the bag. Only those who are desperate for food crave their consumption. I rub salt into my gaping bleeding wounds because humans are addicted to sodium. I shape out her beautiful breasts, knowing that my body will never look like that. My back is curved like a potato chip only because I know that position is pleasing to men. I cover my loins with brands because people only buy named chips. I cut up my arms and my thighs like Hasselback so that you may pull apart my folds and savour my taste. Peel my skin away to reveal this smooth yellow flesh of mine, waiting for your knife.
Place your meat and phallic mushrooms onto my russet body like Picado and present me like a foreign dish.
Mash my body and my mind until I become starch in your hands; cover my body in butter so that you can suck me off that golden spoon of yours.
Your wife can make mashed potatoes, but not everyone can be like Joël Robuchon. Potatoes must be nurtured for, cared for. It’s not as appetising to cook with wild potatoes.
What’s the point of being independent if one still has to rely on the hands of man?
