Little House On The Prairie

There was a little house
On the Prairie
Well, not really prairie and not little
Somewhere between Ostia Antica
And Casal Palocco

It was cowboy country
A mish mash of good
And the bad
And sometimes the ugly
But definitely cowboy

Men played shotgun
With me on a regular basis
Some shot pistols, others rifles
But they liked to shoot
And you could find their bullets everwhere

I'm not sure if I was a cowgirl
Sometimes cowgirl positions
But often not
Men often imagine unorthodox things
Which are not always easy to do

Men rode into town on their stallion
Sometimes brown or black but often white
Colour never changed the gallop
Or the things that took place
There is no prejudice in a whores bed

But after the ride we sat by the campfire
And talked, and more
Often the talk was of loved ones
Of which I was not one
But they loved my cunt

They loved my cunt and ass because
They were always available
At a price
And men like that
They are not patient

I don't live on the little prairie
Any longer
My cowboy days are over
Yet I still get ridden
At my 'bidden'

But the wild and wonderful west
Is now just a memory
The dust lays fast
And I have cobwebs
Around my cunt

The road with no crossroads

On the left is a large, rectangular field
Yellowing under the hot,midday sun
No shade, just torrid, blazing heat
The only life, is insect life
And it seems, for many of these,
It is too hot

 It is far too hot, hot on your feet hot
Flies rush to your lips and eyes
To capture saliva and moisture
And anything the body lets out
They are crazy with heat
And ignore the swipes of a sweaty hand

The flies, like me, are on a mission
They like me are maddened and frustrated
My salty, eyes cast mistily
To the right and scans another field
It is a multitude of browns and conveys barren
Even the weeds have withered

The brown field appears bereft of life
Without redemption
It awaits the rain, like we all do
To cool and wash away the
results of the heat
But everything seems dead

The rain, it is hoped, will nourish the soil
But what is there to be nourished?
Is it possible that life can survive this?
Can life emerge from the dust?
Can the land become green and lush?
And productive?

And in front, behind a windscreen of dead flies and gnats
A long, long road
Not winding at all
Straight but with gradients
Ups and downs
But the overall image is down

Down to the horizon
Where there isn't much
To talk about
Other than down
Other than road
That is long and straight

The road is without crossroads
Without intersections
Without junctions
There is no official way off this road
But many have tried
Tyre marks edge the side of the tarmac


The tarmac is sticky
Black puddles, inky splodges
Mingled with dust
Tracks appear to go nowhere
And maybe I like nowhere
Maybe it is a better place to go