Rhyming verse is a woman scorned
to whom lip service must be paid.
Set free from meter, unadorned
Her lyric fury waits, delayed
as she rambles on in a free verse swoon,
oblivious to whoever’s listening,
babbling to the crescent moon
illuminated, horned and glistening,
bathing her deluded mind
in lunar metaphors of doom.
Do not provoke her—treat her kind
and let her pass to a padded room
or an attic space beneath the eves
where she can rant and find release;
until her frenzied soul believes
that words have meaning…
and rests in peace.
But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine
And poesy made Calliope’s own child?
Huntress, fill my pleading glass !
Let this marksman’s blood be merry.
Whether we shoot hind or ass,
Hail our wet preliminary.
Having brought to birth such brave quadruplets,
Let us toast the midwife with our couplets.
Sweet Diana pours her rounds:
Tawny Port and Shooting Sherry.
Hares now flee the baying hounds
For their country sanctuary.
Thine the night, oh bright and savage huntress;
Lead us to the quarry, chaste Artemis.
Conejito, hide yourself
From the charging adversary
Who would change your pelt for pelf;
(All close shaves are cautionary).
Forgive our clanging gong and sounding brass;
They serve to drive the quarry from the grass.
Healing balm: such sporting frolic,
Dares us to stay sedentary;
Banishing our melancholic
State, her bright apothecary!
Wild huntress, let us know you as the Greeks
And quiver as our heart your arrow seeks.
Toast we now the careless hunt;
Spoonerists wax luminary.
Visions of the hairless cunt
Make my lay discretionary.
ye POETS, SWAINS and MUSES
Thus ends National Poetry Writing Month
I bid you all fair Adieu.
Trip away, make no stay / Meet me all by break of day . . .
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down
A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked prude
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.
Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:
Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke,
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, sperm and tumefaction.
Laurie Vargas, mouth full of cum,
Spread for us now your Aztec bum.
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your wetback eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other sluts
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)
I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless porno-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.
An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own tit.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)
Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When sex has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?
I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.
Laurie Vargas was born in 1983 in Los Angeles, California, as Ruth Ayon.
(Some sources indicate Guadalajara Mexico as her birthplace)
PROMPT #14: write a poem that deals with people who inspired you to write poems.
These could be people that you strive to be like,
or even people that you strive not to be like.
There are as many ways to go with this prompt as there are ways to be inspired.