Sonnet to the Sacred Hole

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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

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