Vargas Girl

Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down
John Lennon

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.

 

Fading at the Jaded Gate

You leave me cold—and so forlorn;
thou weary jaded face of Porn.
Does any of your turgid action
hold a trace of true attraction—
more than the membranes, moans and glands
that move your products’ many brands?
Your upper face looks haggard, used
your orifices gape, unmused
in lurid and contrived excitement
offering at best, incitement
to a spurt of blasé bliss:
a risk-free game of Hit on Miss.
Fleshtones moan: transparent fakes
where tremors masquerade as quakes.
For such hard work you’re unimpressed;
your weary looks leave one depressed—
to seek, instead, an amateur;
the accolades belong to her
whose modest shoot on humble bed
ensures her book of love gets read;
much better than that HD trash
where made-up squeals meet dirty cash.

Recalling now the titillation
of my youthful sex-fixation
wherein falsities were prized,
airbrushed half-truths, oversized:
thrills to nevermore regain
nor recreate, much less attain . . .
yet, seen beside today’s hot mess
it’s more alluring to undress
the past, by varying degrees
(her imperfections sure to please).

Perennial curiosity
spreads carnal luminosity
upon the mysteries of the flesh
to tease our hungers; and refresh
our longing for the great Unknown;
flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Those naughty childhood memories
transmute the lustful ecstasies;
each glance, each timeless thrilling tease,
was stronger then—compared to this
whose pull is harder to dismiss.
It fades more quickly once it’s past—
but Venus’ vintage treasures last
until the suns of lust grow cold
and all of desire’s daughters old.

now you can call me
the one who was a poet
but hated Haiku

Poetic Hits

It’s fun getting a few more views per day than usual as we move toward Spring with National Poetry Writing Month. I enjoy checking other people’s blogs as well.  If you want to participate,  you can submit your poetry blog HERE.

This year, I will re-post some of my older poems during March.
I have published 30 original works every April for the last four years.

You can read them by clicking on the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right

This one from 2015 gets a lot of hits
(I expect by people looking for something else
and for all the wrong reasons)
:

 

      Hello Porneia

Girly-girl, I feel you near . . .
thanks for stopping by (again).
You knock, then whisper in my ear
that S-word mightier than the pen.

I haven’t seen you for so long;
beholding now your rosy charms
let me let you right my wrong
within your warm and virtual arms.

Take me to that field of flowers
where the wondrous waters flow.
Temper there my raging powers—
none, save God, will know.

 

(Porneia and I go back a long way . . .  but since we broke up, our relationship is strictly Platonic)

Porneia2https://i2.wp.com/www.napowrimo.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/logo-napowrimo.png

STAY CONNECTED
for more
THRILLING POETRY !

IMAGE CREDIT: io9.com

 

Hello Porneia

Porneia2

Girly-girl, I feel you near . . .
thanks for stopping by (again).
You knock, then whisper in my ear
that S-word mightier than the pen.

I haven’t seen you for so long;
beholding now your rosy charms
let me let you right my wrong
within your warm and virtual arms.

Take me to that field of flowers
where the wondrous waters flow.
Temper there my raging powers—
none, save God, will know.

(Porneia and I go back a long way… but since we broke up, our relationship is strictly Platonic)

IMAGE CREDIT: io9.com