It was a parody – a tasteless spoof
on lover’s leaking fluids, a delight in
making light of night’s sweet congress,
of soulful sex’ insightful whim in bodily
awareness. It might have seemed
much more than that, sounded right
and proper melody for praise; in fact
it was a base and blasé send-up of the
way we seek a glory in our acts of selfish
need. The words were plain, indeed
the climax came and went like echoes
in an empty head completely drained,
the hollow feeling framed in bliss that
bled its warm munificence in arms
wound tight around a dream that
wrinkled wet and meekly waned...
© 10 June 2007, I.D. Carswell
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