gather ye rosebuds

The title of this post is from a poem by Robert Herrick that gets directly to the point:

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Personally, I like Andrew Marvell’s similarly themed poem better:

To His Coy Mistress

Both poems seek to entice the female listener to “give it up” to the speaker.  Both poems imply that the listener needs to get busy because she isn’t getting any younger or prettier and she’ll be dead before long.

Pick those pansies! Pluck those primroses! Gather those geraniums! Go, go, go, go… oops, out of time. You’re dead.

Oh, so very very romantic.  At least Shakespeare tells his beloved that she is beautiful and will never age in his Sonnet 18.

Damn it. Now I have a song stuck in my head…

Love that song.  Whole lotta creepy but a whole lotta lush.  It was the ’90s after all.

Speaking of flowers and getting laid, skipping over the creepy part, I am going to post two pictures and you tell me if they look similar at all.

I know, that’s some Kama Sutra level of coitus, but it best shows the parallels.

But the image isn’t complete.  For one thing, what we call “flowers” are actually the hemaphrodite sex organs of a plant.  Kind of like Liane Cartman in South Park.

And if we are adding parts to the fair organ, then we need to add lips.  Labia, more specifically.  And petals. Petals made of pubic hair. Plus a clitoris, which exists only to give pleasure to female mammals and no other reason. So kind of important.

I apologize in advance for my (total lack of) drawing skills.  But here’s an artist’s rendering of what the combined human genitalia would look like if they were assembled the same way as they are in flowers.

I also apologize that the testicles look like meatballs. On the plus side, gents, in this bizarro-realm, you have at least two if not several penises.

Sadly, you’ve got no hands to hold those willies. But you can rock out with your cock out and people won’t call the cops on you, so that’s a win.

The fact that the clitoris is attached to the heart is real the take-away here.

They say that the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Maybe.  But the fastest way to his spinal cord is a long tongue kiss along the seam at the bottom of his schlong.

If oral sex, giving or receiving, is your thing (isn’t it everyone’s thing?) then I would recommend my sci-fi erotica novella.

Anywho, science lessons and private parts and bad bad bad bad illustrations.  Doesn’t change the fact that I think flowers are pretty.

 

But I understand the whole birds and bees thing too.

I toiled over this poem, nurtured it.  I am happy with how it blossomed.

garden

in brilliant hues of velvet crush
the dainty lust of lilies rush,
with flowing sap towards the lip
at where a bird may place his tip.

bluebells will brave the open sky
on off-chance of a passerby.
attention from a wayward bee
is soon to bring the colony.

the pink nub of a rose’s nib
is always wanton, never glib.
like the nympho ne’er once chagrined,
she climaxes with just the wind.