A pure accident of the kismet kind
What else but lovers, embracing the two-fold blind
The bottom-big Barbie, like a true diamond called Kimberly
Was really a Sri Lankan lass, who moaned like a banshee.
They made pillows out of their generous suntan
In rituals of percussion, as buxom woman and wiry man
Making love was an euphemism, hyphenated by a short line,
A portmanteau in its most primal, like the tidal brine
Lovers’ lane, is a bed full, of crazy half-stunts
Geometry lessons that one learns, in explosions of grunts
Caught in a chemical monsoon, between lip and lip
Ushering in a crucible, alloying crevice and tip
So flesh turned sore, from toes to the skull
As love, the fender-bender, screamed to a lull.