Far too many love-songs do not really
speak of love. They deal with fuckness 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 who to depth-loveness are inclined.
Thus, only natural could draw my soul —
can make my heart blend into one (though two).
I lose my self when in that sacred hole —
that portal which knights love to journey through.
For only flesh on flesh draws out my sap
in lightning fourth-dimension thunderclap!
© Alan Morrison, 2019