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.
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