(The Prostitute)

Man coercers a woman to have sex using reasons other than her own desire

A body of blue covered in desolate grey
In the field uniform of modern wars
Darkens her curves, those endless, outstretched paws
Of morality demolished or intimacy worn away.

They call her a lover of sex, but they lie
She is the last of the women, the emptiest
A woman beyond her change of life, a breast
Still tender but within the womb is dry

Without love, dreams, serendipity
The emotions and superstitions of younger times
Her tears drown amongst external mimes
The tears of her immense stupidity

Flood the monotonous men of the earth.
In them the primal beings survive
Whose boast is not "we love" but "we arrive"
A type vanquished by the virgin birth

And her five senses, like five teeming sores
Each drains her: vast parasitic watering holes
Where second hand men steal and cajole
Lusterly on their alien shores

Yet there are some like me that turn timidly from
The cultivated jungle of romantic thoughts, to find
The Arabian desert of the human mind
Hoping from the desert the tears will come

Such savage and scarlet that no romance dares
Springs in that conflict, some reason escapes
The learned guilt, the act of civilized apes
Which was called love somewhere.

About the poet/painter