The Truth About Love

Love Portugese

How dreaded to know that life
Is just a big lie? You’re told to love the unlovable,
To muster courage when it is easier
To be a coward, to succeed when
It is just a wave of transience.
Sometimes, all life is, is a prison of time,
When you’re trapped inside a body, that
Empowers, plugged to another life form,
And obscures everything else
To pretend you’re living a charmed life
A sex-powered robot, who
Is searching for the artificial intelligence
Of the heart, to know that one feeling
Is there, to be expressed in mattress sports.
The truth is, the penis bone disappeared
For a reason. We were not made to
Be monkeys, and do the dirty, get down
To business, with just about anyone.
No, we assign meaning to the flesh works,
How vasodilation makes you armed with an object
That turns touch to delirium.

We too like monkeys, hold a tip of
An evolutionary tree, and yet
We only have a wishbone, fate breaks,
To see who is lucky and who is not.
Luck is in the robotic, yet fortune is the real deal.
How dabbled you are in heart works,
That precious affirmation, that
Like a lever, amplifies a small force
To a larger output. How little it takes
To convince the primordial center, the heart,
In that tweezing act of holding and letting go,
Your mandible turning to a grip-maker
And that feeling inside, that scavenges
Every teeny-weeny morsel of a lip enclosure,
Shows that love, will always be a forensic science,
A patho-physiology, the only time
A cancer is just a collective syndrome
Of anatomical rendez-vous, that frequents on hokey territory
Mushy as the wet monsoons, blowing like a cyclone,
Violating your compromises,
To become like the water creatures;
Fluid all around, flowing like a song-wave,
To be embraced like a lyrical poem,
Blissed from where the fig leaf was,
In that naked-aphorism,
That the song of the flesh, is really a stooge,
Fooling you in that orgasmic revelation,
That love is just a crazy hyperbole.

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