Seventy Two Virgins

Heaven is … 72 virgins.

72 male virgins, that is.

Why, I’m a woman, of course!
And each of those virgins has no dick,
But tells me that he loves me insanely.

I send them away,
And then bring in my children,
Recline at ease on my pastel-coloured sofa,
And watch them play with the maids.

Late at night I sit down and learn painting,
And the 72 virgins can be seen through the window,
Covered head to toe in Burkas,
Gardening.

I order my art master to come in and lie beside me,
In his glorious youth,
And of course he does – but I don’t let him touch me.

Not tonight.

Then I eat apples, because apples are non-fattening,
And the clotted cream can wait,
Because clotted cream dulls my head.

‘So this is heaven?’ I ask my art tutor,
And he nods.
‘Well then,’ I tell him,
‘Where’s earth?’ and he nods and points down.

Far below I see the toil and tears,
And I’m amused.
A thunderbolt from my hand
Knocks out the ignorant fools with their Kalishnikovs
Who are lining up to die.
‘And where’s their heaven?’ I ask
As their spirits float skywards,
And my art tutor shrugs.

I watch them float towards their heaven,
And see more of the same,
More Earth,
Though only in the sky.

‘How strange,’ I mutter sweetly,
‘That their vision is so lacking
That they can only think of Earth,
Even in their heaven,’ and I laugh mockingly.

Then I call in my Maths and Science Masters,
And scold them severely,
Line up my children, and tell them to grow up straight and true;
Put on my old rags and climb out of the window,
Slip through the trees and run towards the horizon.

And when I stop running I will have died,
For in my heaven there is only the horizon,
And there is only me running towards that horizon.