Ladies, the superbly sculpted,
of your wildest dreams is here.
It’s true, I’m often mistaken for God.
My old boss claims I’m as useless
as a paint chart on a black and white TV.
I should’ve been running that company.
I’m seeking a voluptuous poetess,
to join me for adventures,
artistic and animalistic.
What kind of art soars off your chart?
Traditional landscapes and portraits
can be as exquisite as the finest floozy,
ever to frolic in my oceanic Jacuzzi;
but I prefer transparent unicorn serpents,
with amphibious goblins swimming in their stomachs.
That’s a bit dark isn’t it.
What has a more sunshine and rainbows appeal?
Maybe a version of Medusa,
who merely bedazzles besotted suitors,
bathing in the sun kissed billabongs of her eyes,
instead of turning them to stone.
Her pygmy dragon, belly dancing troupe
is off their leads in the background.
Now that’s art.
When I’m not gazing at butterfly sail galleons
at the gallery,
I’m searching for truly psychic psychics
and ghosts that are more than a sneaky breeze.
I know human observations aren’t always
more accurate than a sixteenth century musket,
in the hands of a Parkinson’s victim,
but sometimes arrows split atoms.
This thrill seeker also enjoys sprint cars.
I can’t say I’ve backflipped my way
from the grandstand to the pits
and raced one,
but I drove a go kart once.
Not one of those glorified dodgem cars,
that could be overtaken by a mum pushing a pram,
a real one.
Unfortunately the lining of my helmet
slipped over my eyes
and I ran over the track attendant.
I’m more likely to win a poetry prize than a Grand Prix.
Ladies, my erotic rhymes will make you swoon.
They’re as adventurous as a space shuttle orgy,
hurtling towards the wildest interstellar moon.
I authored the Kama Sutra for acrobats darlin,
this mighty love machine’s no literary buffoon.
If you’re as vivacious as I’m salacious,
my appetite for your soul is rapacious.
Yep, I swallow Thesaurus’s
and shit out classics.
You’re not ready to meet after our umpteenth epic chat
and naïve enough to imagine I’ll graciously accept that?
I want to know the love of my life before palliative strife.
Why not reveal how captivated you are by my free verse,
before it’s time to rehearse for the hearse?