Far too many love-songs do not really
speak of love. They deal with fuck that’s fickle —
light infatuation, never deeply
sucking on the temple’s golden nipple.
Love-songs, just like condoms, are discordant
with making love of any cosmic kind.
Sheaths are masturbation bags, abhorrent
to those flames who to tantra are inclined.
Thus, only natural can draw my soul —
can make my heart blend into one (though two).
I lose myself when in that sacred hole,
that portal which I yearn to journey through.
For only flesh on flesh draws out my sap
in lightning fourth-dimension thunderclap!
© Alan Morrison, 2015