Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.

STUPID CUPID

I told her I would like her
if only she'd wear lycra,
or play the balalaika
whilst I photo'd with my Leica.

I said I had a soft spot
for her sexy rounded hot bot
and the harder it would get
if only she would let me
serenade her on her balcony
with my contrabassoon.

I informed her of my desire
to kiss her when required
until my desire expired
but that wouldn’t be
before her lyrical body
sang like a holy choir.

But all my protestations,
my urges and frustrations,
just missed my destination -
the object of my desire.

So without the hesitation
borne of trepidation,
I put my arms around her
and kissed her on the forehead
like many times before,
then swallowed much Viagra,
over dosing like Niagara,
and with a hard on bigger than Agra.
I died an unhappy man.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content

Comments

I almost spit out my drink !
~Geezer.
.

There is value to commenting and critique, tell us how you feel about our work.
This must be the place, 'cause there ain't no place like this place anywhere near this place.

See reply to Kat

author comment

Cheers!

author comment

Thankyou Kat
There are so many levels from which I could comment in reply that it has taken me a whole day of thought before I started tapping the keys. Firstly please remind yourself that the subject of the poem is STUPID Cupid. That might give you a clue that this poem is about (or even by) a stupid man. Secondly, despite all the advances of that stupid man the subject (or, if you prefer, the object) of his advances was intelligent enough to reject them.
In fact, although you would not know this, the poem is me laughing at myself for presuming that the woman concerned would have any thoughts of sex with me. Nevertheless she, Helen, has been a great friend of mine since then and we are now both ten years older.
As for you finding my poem somewhat offensive, well that is your prerogative. I wouldn’t want to try and dissuade you.
You also feel my poem is disrespectful to women who should be valued for more than their hot bodies. That’s as may be, but, had you not read the poem at its most superficial level but given it a little thought instead of going off on a crusade defending women’s honour when most of them are perfectly capable of doing that for themselves, then you might have come to a view as outlined in my first paragraph.
Put it like this – As you read this comment you can bet your bottom dollar that of the 8 billion people on this planet something like four million couples will be copulating one way or another and I doubt whether they will be thinking about each other’s intelligence whilst they are doing it.
You challenge me to write a poem extolling a woman’s intelligence and kindness. I’ll do that when the spirit moves me. In the meantime I leave you with a poem I wrote about the most beautiful, kind and intelligent woman I ever met – my mother.

I hid amongst your clothes.
Amidst the muffled silence and the silky fall
Of your dresses and your Persian shawl
And basking in the heady scent of
Rose and jasmine, and your talc,
I lay within, and on, my scented catafalque,
Safe within my certainty that you and I
Were destined for eternity.
I lounged about like King Farouk
Lost in the aisles of a foreign souk,
This bizarre bazaar where angels are
This citadel – my Ritz Hotel –
So far from Norman Bates Motel.
This sentient isle of daffodil,
This magic land that cast a spell
This sorcerer’s dive, this infidel cave,
A perfect place for me to live
My whole life through – a ne’er do well.
But one September afternoon
With no warning nor a sign
I heard a rushing sound so strange
And felt my body rent and tear.
It plucked me from my homely lair
And introduced me to this antiseptic air.
I grasped and gasped at its perfume
So unlike my comfy room.
Then as my eyes began to stare,
Adjusted by my pupils' widened stance,
I saw a vision in the gloom
Glanced now in bleary watered eyes
But then in sharpest focus'd light
As if my brain had brightened from the sight
Of shooting stars and meteorite.
I saw a woman in that room
More perfect than Madonna’s bloom.
She looked at me with wondrous eyes
And smiled a smile that tantalised.
I looked at her complete surprise
As if she’d waved a magic wand
And pulled a rabbit from a hat
Or indeed a cat or rat.
But No! This squawking bundle
Was a screaming brat
Of marbled skin and blackened hair
Like a mewling puking human jumble,
A squamous screeching jangled muddle,
Emerging from some hideous jungle.
What followed then was just etcetera.
She’d wrecked my previous raison d’etre
And bundled me, unceremoniously,
From her fragrant balcony
And out of its fenetre.
So now my fantasy was gone.
No more the eerie humpback’s song
Or sounds that lingered in the distant gloom
No more the beat - my mother’s heart -
Or laughter in the swirling dark.
No more the gurgle through the chord
That tied me to my mother’s side
Nor that damn Mozart’s harpsichord
That she played so loudly in the night.
So now I’m real and I need some food,
I’m not those cats that feed on scraps
Nor dogs that howl for a hunter’s moon
But a real life boy with constant needs
So feed me now or I’ll scream and scream.
Don’t think you’re done, you’re not the Queen
You’re in it now ‘til I’m a teen.
“You’re not done yet,” I’ll yell and yell
“Give me all you’ve got or I’ll unleash hell”.
But wait, this mother gave me life.
In fifteen minutes with my Dad
She turned his fecund thoughts into a lad
She magic’d blood and bone
From nothing more than spermatazoon.
She even filmed it on her ‘phone
Or, she would have, but it was 1946
And her I-phone hadn’t been invented yet.
So the earliest photo I have of me
Is on Bournemouth beach at about half past three
One November afternoon in 1948
With spade and bucket in the sand and
An ice cream cornet in my hand and
An ice cream moustache about my face -
A magnificent specimen of the human race.

author comment

Defending women's rights is of utmost importance. I subscribe to a local charity which provides shelter for women (and their children) who have nowhere to go after family break up. I think the cruelty that men serve up to women is one of the most horrible aspects of life.
As this subject has touched a vein for both of us, I have posted another poem in the Stream which is about when my relationship with Helen began. We knew each other through a local group and she felt I was someone who could help her - I did so through the SEVEN years it took to divorce her husband (I hate lawyers!!). Please note this was NOT in a professional capacity but as a friend. We often joked that helping her was like having all the problems of being her husband without any of the benefits.

author comment

Your poem for your mother is one of the best I've ever had the privilege of reading, is it posted here on Neopoet? because if it is I'd like to leave a more detailed comment if not I'll just do it here.

I now know a little of your mother and from what you've shared its apparent she was an extraordinary intelligent and beautiful woman. and your love and your grief in losing her breaks my heart having lost both my parents.

biggest (((hugs))) Jayne

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

Your comments are greatly appreciated. Yes the poem was previously on Neopoet. You can see other work if you click on Entend2u, I have just posted another poem in the Stream in a similar vein and see my follow up comment to Kat's later one.
My mother lost her first child - a girl she named Veronica - ten days after birth. She never recovered from this and it coloured the rest of her life. So she was very protective of me when I was young.

author comment

deleted

author comment

I think this is ('cuse the language) it is fucking hilarious, having been in a similar situation I understand. lol winks ;)

Btw the man in question I was in love/lust is still my friend and I've known him more thank 3/4 of my life. His wife became one of my best friends and I sang at their wedding.

I have nothing to offer in regard to edits, its cadence and language is awesome.

kindest regards Jayne

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats

I hope you find the poem I have just posted in the Stream amusing too.

author comment
(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.