The frog tongue jumps out of
Goldfish lips. Frenching is like fencing.
Still there’s nothing sordid about
Lip smack, even tongue gobble
And a kiss, isn’t it the sublime honesty
Of yearning-powered lips
Fishing with a hook, to ensnare the catch
Of a rosy-pink wonderland,
Inching towards primal contact?
There’s really nothing much towards Kiss Sutra
It is like the estuary of the Ganges
Meeting the pout of the Indian Ocean
Kama trickling down to be one in corpse,
With an insubordinate karma.