A Valentine’s Day Poem on Love and Babies

Bitch is a female dog
Beech is a tree, the genus Fagus
And we fag away, the long night,
Not under covers, as movies portray,
In a well lit room, making
A racket loud enough for arousal,
And soft enough not to wake up the neighbors.
And love, is how wet we are,
At the end, the love creek spilling
Over, a puddle big enough
For a paper boat, the dream,
Ticking away, as she holds her legs to the heavens.
The milk that gets delivered to the doorstep.
The babies that float on our bodies
And the orgasm that spills
More than it thrills, and a feeling
That the odds are with us,
As we look for a sign from anywhere,
How little spill there is, coming out,
How long she lasts with legs pointed to the heavens,
Or how inside of her, I was,
At that moment I sprinkled pollen,
Down her twat, the desperation
Of wanting a heartbeat more than an orgasm,
The little-tunnel fools searching for
The dropped egg.
Our big bang event, that is,
Impeccable in theory and account,
And yet, foolish in execution,
How the omens are louder than the amulets
And the newspapers are wet in flow through,
What we dispose later, our hopes dashing
At how wet they are, the 156000 my count is,
10 fold higher than a normal man,
The big man on paper, and the milkman in bed.
A legacy that enfeebles month by month,
How bullet proof some eggs are,
My little freaks freaking it out,
On a little membrane, with no chance
Of opening her.
How some eggs are stronger
That others, and my headstrong bullets
Swimming gallantly like a galleon,
The canons firing, and yet no moment
To call serendipity, only an absent
Pink stripe on a peed strip. How little
We know of probability, 1 out of
156000, and still a long shot, the long arm
Of fate feeding a little swimmer,
With a little headstrongness.
What will punch a hole on the wall,
And swim inside. The grand entrance,
To a little spherical cell.
There are no palanquins here though,
Every man is for himself,
Any man man-enough to brake open a vault,
Carrying half-a-blueprint of life.

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