CHSEINA’S ASS*

Chseina’s Ass…

A monument of raw nature!

No treadmills,
Or diet pills,
Had any say in this matter…

Only the ? that made the mountains,
Sun,
And sea,
Formed her perfect shapes…

I doubt it tastes very good,
But it makes for some serious erectile visuals…

Walking fully dressed,
Into the Sea…
Collecting her goodies,
Which she may serve me tonight?
Helping me cum?

Will she play her flute,
Which only her tribe can play?

Will she do some ‘accidental’ veil-slipping perhaps?

Or even just stare at me with those eyes open to millennia ago?

*Chseina is a married Bedouin woman who consciously kept me thoroughly aroused for months on end in the Sinai desert.

COMPROMISE

Sometimes fucking,
Or lying with,
A mediocre woman,
Feels OK…

Better than nothing…

At least a small piece,
Of the fully-luscious pie…

But at other times,
Including now,
The mediocrity is so putrid,
And hearbreakingly incomplete,
That there is no compensation,
For the absence of perfection…

And I’d prefer to be alone,
And dream about –
Yearningly,
Even painfully –
Distant elation…

UNBEARABLE

I spend nights weeping about not having fucked Cleopatra,
And all the other legendary beauties!

Who can blame me?

My contemporary Goddesses still have a chance…

But those of past generations,
Who seem so much tastier through their distance…

How can one bear to have missed them?

TIMING

Most of my public,
Is currently still sperm,
In the testicles,
Of today’s youth…
Yet to be sprouted…
Yet to be born…

So if you see me staring at some adolescent balls,
It’s not necessarily a homoerotic gesture,
But an attempt to establish contact with my audience…

(‘How about our eggs?!’ scream the female youth…)

MISSED OPPORTUNITY

Oh, Maestro Byron!
Wouldn’t you delight to see,
The doorsteps of Hotel Byron,
In the center of Firenze.

There nine nymphs lie,
Half-asleep and dreaming,
Of the chance with you to lie,
In your sweet poetic bleeding.

SECRETIONS

You don’t choose your secretions,
Or their aroma,
Texture,
Frequency,
Or place of origin…

And I’m not just talking about sweat,
Tears,
Puss,
Cum,
Shit,
And menstruation…
But also the myriad beauties,
That we secrete,
Every now and again…

We don’t choose the time,
Place,
Color,
Tone,
Texture,
Genre,
Quantity,
Etc.

We just wait,
Like anxious spectators,
To see what the gods,
Choose to secrete,
Upon the world,
Through our porous minds,
Hearts,
And souls.

MY LADY*

My lady shits Sonatas!

Glorious, fragrant Sonatas!

She eats ’em,

And then shits ’em,

More fragrantly than written!

Oh, what a lady!

Long, fragrant, glorious Sonatas!

*Works best when read with a thick German accent.

A FINAL PLEA

You have my heart hostage,
In a little sack,
Hidden amongst your dusty belongings…

Are you even aware of it?

Feel free to play with it,
Sit on it,
Burn it,
Pee on it,
Throw it to the ground,
And dance on it with a perfect stranger,
Again and again…

But please don’t just let it hang there,
Forgotten,
And moth-bitten,
Amongst your vast collection
Of trophies and tokens!

GOD-LIKE

Like Orpheus,
I went into hell,
To pursue my love.

Unlike Orpheus,
I remained in hell,
And am enjoying my love.

LOOKING FOR ORPHEUS

I once knew an Orpheus incarnation,
Who lived to compose,
And move mountains with his music…

But then he was bewitched and tamed,
And now caters to the masses’ twitchy toes…

And neither stones,
Nor my heart,
Are now moved by his art…

Oh! To break the spell,
And unleash the godly fire,
For at least one more display,
Of mad perfection!

Or has Orpheus grown impatient,
And found a new incarnation?

Please let me know,
If you hear word,
Of this nomadic demi-god…