The Man Hypothesis

LOve Toulouse

Swell, how we make it work, the sacrifices and pleas.
We are like a compartmentalized train,
The engine making us travel through
The scenery and the tunnels,
Day and night, the long road to a place
Far far away, embracing the sun and the moon
And the ever-blurring dusk,
Which makes you return home,
No longer churning Vitamin D,
Or getting roasted under the sun.
Only selenophilia, the moon
As naked as Lady Godiva’s buttock cheeks,
And I like peeping Tom,
Looking through trespassing clouds,
Earning my own sobriquet,
Becoming, Thomas the lunatic,
Madder than an Einstein’s hair-do.
Love and a hamster, the hum of a tune,
Organic in so many ways,
Turning into a guinea pig in bed.
The perfect experiment,
The hypothesis, a virgin man is in bed,
And the conclusion he becomes.
Consummation is as much man
As woman, and now, they will become statisticians,
Gathering counts, a hypothesis that gets proven
Over and over, in the same sequence;
– The maddening, love is,
And the shining, it combusts to.

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