I’m such an easypushover magnet man
that any lovelyloving girl
could wrap me round her little finger
in a whirl
and there I would stick
while she rapidly shakes her hand
to get me to uncurl.
They know the game
and who can blame them?
It’s called Natural Selection
Survival of the Fittest
(There is no protection).
We are all simply following
blind instinct calls;
jungle activity even enthrals
unhairy apes (but inside their walls).
Girls have magnets too.
[Mostly it’s the opposite pole
but that’s not always the case].
They draw you in with their natural gravity
into their natural heartshaped cavity
then spit you out with a rasping sound
which I curiously found
reminds me of locusts
or foxes and hounds.
Deep in that cavity you’ll hear some moans –
The likely result of some neat pheromones.
If you hear screaming don’t be alarmed
It’s only a sign that the magnets were armed
Here I am longing for a love that is pure –
a soul who is free (with no admission fee)
from the hideous mortal coil of unsprung tension
from the treacherous treadmill of grinding convention
With neither ship nor vessel
ever to be seen
on the horizon of Eros’s
I hobble on
with untold anchors snagging at my heels
with dreams of windmills and old Ferris Wheels
How to unhook oneself out of this dance?
Whatever we do, we don’t stand a chance.
© 2011, Alan Morrison