Underneath a Poet

We poets are like everybody else Except that we have No members beneath That pours out honey and nectar. Now say that like the poet you are. Words like apples at the centre of the garden Belong not with poets to use. They are dirty slimy words And they are derogatory. Poets are just too decent A breed for such words. They are the only breed of humans Who are alien to such dirty things. I was eating ginger roots Near the abattoir When she looked down Below my six packs of hard meat And exclaimed in candid surprise: "I didn’t know you had such things underneath." Things! Some persons actually believe We are sacred, Saintly, legendary, Like angels, holy. Like the name of God, pure. Something that is worshiped. Or like the popes of old. Like from the foundation Of the church and All the religions, old. You want us ancient, You want us archaic and wrinkled. Thank you for your desires But think of me standing before you. Wouldn’t you rather have me? Remember, nectar and honey Drip from beneath. Brains are good for poets Because they need brains To etch out lucid images In your subconscious. And if there is anything else They could ever need, It should be mouths To impress on your tympanum Very concrete symbolisms. That may be true Of female poets. If not, some female poet Would say so someday. Because like in their face, Down below between their thighs Is another eyeless face with softer lips Flowery and fruity. And that tiny horny thing A much more intensely sensuous tongue. Perhaps, that is some other mouth Belonging to a woman poet Used for eating banana and honey You can call it sweet-mouth. As for me, I have but one mouth. The rest things are sticking out Like a shaggy monster cucumber And a shaven bag of balls. Things used for penetration; For productivity. You sit there looking down on me. And saying to yourself. What is he saying? Is he not a poet? Of course I am, But I am a man too With canon and liquid fire. And my woman should have mouths enough To take in all that is coming.