The solitary sucker (with nothing better to do than ruin old poems)

Behold her, naked in the field
Yon sexy highland lass
Touching and fingering herself
Stop here, or gently pass.
Alone she soughs and moans again
Intermingling in pleasure and pain
O listen! for even the hound
is ejaculating to the sound!

No prostitute did ever chaunt
more welcome notes to perverted men.
No model did ever flaunt
For free, breasts bigger than a ben.
A body so thrilling ne'er was seen
Amongst beauty pageants and queens
If you so wish, come and linger,
Jerk from a distance, or insert a finger.

Will no one tell me why she sucks
Every cock that comes her way,
And charges not a single buck
For all the wild sex and foreplay?
Or is that, through her vertical chasm
Is the highway to eternal orgasm?
For it cannot be just in vain
That all she does is fuck, and fuck again!

Whate’er the reason, the maiden bangs
All men, who tread upon her field
Within my heart and soul, still hangs
The joys of treachery, that she revealed.
I walked back home, wasted and tired
But content with all that transpired
Her beauty, in my heart I bore
Oh, was she an angel or a whore?

(Parody of WIlliam Bugger Wordsworth's 'The Solitary Reaper')

Resurrection

It’s difficult
not to miss
the vividness of the dahlias
and the soft dew underneath
your bare foot
in the magical patch
that comes alive
every morning.

It’s difficult
not to be immersed
in the fairytales
from the spirit of your grandmother
in her cloudy attire
and of course the starry sparkles
when she is too tired
to be there for you.

Wouldn’t say the same
about the monotonous humming
of the ceiling fan
and the paranoia
that follows the end of the universe
and your perennial existence.

But it’s difficult
not to miss
the dancing smoke
that erotically evolves
into the lady muse
in the middle of
lonely nights.

In a world
of artificial intelligence
and artificial flavors,
of artificial insemination
and artificial smiles,
it’s difficult
not to miss
artificial bliss.

Spinning into
a higher consciousness
where Neruda and Kubrick
swiftly start making
much more sense
it’s difficult
not to miss
contemplating over
the allegories of life
and metaphysics.

But moon-walking
in the esoteric realms
of surrealism
lady muse took
a curiously human shape
the other day
and it was much more difficult
to neglect her words
when she refused
to be made of smoke any longer
and promised to explore with me
the radiance of the universe
and its unreachable heights
without any of the usual
artificiality.

And that is exactly
what she did.