My Love



My love has eyes the blue of skies,

Her hair a golden cloud.

She sits inside a tight pink skin

Which bends where it’s allowed.

This happens mostly at her joints

Where two bones have a meet –

At neck and shoulders, elbows, wrists

And hips – to make a seat.

Between white teeth a reddish tongue

Articulates in spit

Which dribbles down inside her throat

And lubricates a bit.

Her breasts and buttocks (nicely hung)

In dynamic interaction

Bobble when she walks and talks

To make a main attraction.

Within, a meaty working system

Begets organic fluids.

Parts (too numerous to list ’em)

Process ingested fooeds

Liquefied to meld with flesh,

Proteins, lipids, sugars, gases,

Letting organs mix and mesh

Pumping up curvaceous masses.

But parts internal, sorely needed,

Aren’t where desires are rooted.

Indirectly are they heeded

While shapes outside, convoluted,

Convexities and concave

Are clearly touted, toasted, tooted

Making all my glands to rave

And rationality all muted.



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