Femme Fatale

That lewd Filipina cunt

who’s such hot stuff,

each of her pages

torn from bed sheets.

Her lines so bleak and blunt,

her blood burning, spilling

for the one most willing

to sweat in her heat.

Each of her quatrains

screams exquisite pain —

cri de coeur

to her amour.

And after fucking what

remains? You want me to

explain to you what love

is for? You’re such a whore.

What the hell is philosophy

to you anyway,

you gorgeous poetic bitch?

I’m in your same niche.

No matter how lustily

in verse I display

my lines do not bewitch

the one for whom I itch.

“You expect too much of me

or of the poems,” he said,

hearing coffee for tranny,

which, perhaps, he’d rather bed.

Fuck, those words don’t even

rhyme. These desperate times

call for raunchy poems.

Screw caffeine. Suck this.

I mean, give me a break,

I sure could use a latte

or even a charred steak.

Have you either for me?

Sneak them through

the back door then.

I’m waiting for you,

my Secret Agent.

So what if our libidos

transfer to our intellect —

in this way love grows,

seamlessly, without neglect.

If your words doomed you

and your muse, brava!

It’s only what was due.

Cunt or cuntezza, Paula,

À votre santé!


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