Pleading for the potent words

I’ve had my fill of plastic-poet penis-substitutes, of
drawing-room assertions putting stilted, rustic scenes
of peace and love in place of towering passions. To them I say
be proud of an erection, let it stand alone and state its case.

The idyll of the great romantic poets wasn’t stupid sheep
a-grazing placidly, it was a goat with cloven feet
and flinty horns and horny tendencies – (disguised as nicely
anguished thoughts engaged in wilful nether deeds).

They’d tinker with the tragic words describing lakes and
mirror’d surfaces reflecting birds in flight – then, with greater
glee, piss into the lake, each making wider rippling rings
of perfect light-deflecting, turgid tidal wake.

And then the nymphs and satyrs pranced in sheer delight,
capered in the rosy light of flesh engaged in fleshy acts,
embracing in contagious scenes of shameless passion
that the painters painted, of unabated artists’ feelings.

I cannot find the power of that in tranquil parks and trees, I
cannot see the power at all in broken-hearted plaintive
pleas for love forsworn eternally, I’m on my knees pleading
for the potent words you shielded from your dainty verse.

We can thrive with oestrus in our minds, it is a natural thing,
be tumescent in our words and deeds, and breathe the robust
life which brought us hence instead of faking, cagy, referent
complainers of the like we find within these lusty pages.
© I.D. Carswell