Orchids

First,
I'm going for an orchid transfusion,
Then, perhaps a soul-trepanation later this afternoon;
Not visited my soul-trepanner for two years now,
Probably why then,
My seepings are now squirting,
Deep-blue brain dew!

The orchid transfusion is my top priority,
It's a "must have" for all the tender men these days,
And anyway,
Why shouldn't we replace our blood with liquidised orchids,
So our hearts pump plasma of jade?

Pasteurised,
Liquidised,
Orchids.
No need eau de toilette anymore,
As orchidised-man smells naturally,
Of this strangely aphrodisiac flower,
Women so adore.
(Even more than daffodils I'm told.)

So I'll venture out to chop some wood,
Beneath London's belting Malteser-melting heat,
Thus,
When a delectable chick wanders innocently by,
She may sniff my furrowed,
And flowery,
(Yet extraordinarily manly),
Pheromones,
And Swoon her sighs.

Or..
She may intuit,
I'm perhaps,
A tad,
A-bark,
Earnestly chopping down fences,
Of a municipal park,

And triangulate,
A floating,
Away..