I can hear Persephone and Hera
teasing, laughing, through the squawks
of these polluted birds:
he’s escaped you, doesn’t want you
you won’t find him, he’s not yours
he’s not yours ¾ Vile Viragoes!
They should be showering my path
with rose petal raindrops
or shrills of remorse, after all
Persephone has also lost
her part-time access ¾ Ha Ha!
she’s back to fucking the dead.
Adonis, where are you?
It’s bitter-sweet torment
being a mop, unable to wring myself
dry, heavily soaked in the desire
between my legs,
remembering yours.
Possibly I was demanding
but you faithfully performed
javelin was always
your better sport ¾
ready, aim, firing
every time.
And now I’m soaked in tears
knowing you’ve turned
from my leera’s tickling tune
to sex-starved rooms
belting, bleating electro machines
and men playing Gods
banging their thunder, a lunatic lust
¾ You Need Me
to help you recall
the smell of wild iris
the taste of honey
being suckled from fig.
You could have confided,
guiding your delights in this phase
would be fun, no need for pretence
discarding girdle for g-strings
mesh stockings, leather cock-rings
to be Mardi Gra’s Pied-Piper of Sex
¾ well, straightening the path
just a little.
and yes, I can have others
easy seduction, again and again
‘Come interlink with my Magic Girdle’
leaving a burning trail of lovers
deluded
like me believing magic lies
with hip bone
to keep our escapees.