Phallus

I know one hairless cactus plant living in a solitary grassless land at the center of a deserted landscape; a place called rock sand. 

It squabbles when the sun burns him a new haircut. His looks are a mix of vermillion, crimson placenta of a rainbow drawn by cheap Crayola.

I walk in the same soil with a different agenda. To feel the insoles of Peoples who rock her vulva. 

Carrying a water jar made of sheepskin and an army of warm robes and dynastic tents for night camps. 

Inside my tent I worship his poised snake that rattles. It transports me to a cinematic awakening and I realise I want more of those robust, sunken and postmodern cactus plants. 

So I knit all the men I want to sleep with, phallus one,

phallus two,

phallus three

phallus four,

phallus five..

And there you have your alphabet and the list goes on..

But the last one, you know, it’s YOU.

Because yours is a hairy, frisky and kinky cactus plant storing a ton of desert water like the humps on a camel’s back. 

Oh and snake charming is not a bad hobby to learn!  

Seeing an oasis yonder I need not defeat such a blunder. Your face is such a symbol thru’ this cold and freezing sand dunes I pray I get to rock one and the same hairy cactus plant among the hairless crowd of the cactus family.

This vulva is ready for that one hairy cactus plant from the city of the rock sand.