Nobody here makes love like this:
with curtains shut against a screaming sun,
fingers fierce or delicate of instance,
Here the sink shines like the surface of virtue
and water boils at a hundred degrees Celcius.
so much to say on the freshness of a lettuce.
Nobody here makes loves like this:
with skin and soul,
thorns and teeth.
Nobody speaks like a piece of fiction
or in a way that encourages addiction.
‘Isn’t it time we had kids?
They’ll modify our traits to perfection.
We’ll put their pictures on the mantelpiece
as proof of our legitimate completion.
All lovely people should have a couple of these.’
Passion is a moment televised,
then dismissed – another neutered wish.
It’s a liaison of legal nature,
a garden of suburban bliss.
Quelle surprise! Nobody here makes love like this.
MARRIAGE A LA MODE
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