For the love of Poetry

I do not know,
Why I write.
What compels
This urge
To fornicate,
With words?
Is it passion,
Or desire, or
An insatiable
Orgasmic mind screw?
Out of nowhere,
Locked in a sweaty,
Musky embrace,
I am clutched
Between Browning’s thighs.
Pulled into a gaping,
Need to surround
My being with rhyme.
Prodding a difficult
Vaginal sestina,
Goaded by the iambic
Of pentameter.
Yet I lust
For the moment when
The words spill off
My pointed ink filled pen,
Onto the parchment,
Of the soul.
Finding a brief
Satisfaction in
The fervor of, my
Love, an exquisite
Explosion of release.
Tangled verbs,
Sheets for
The heart,
Of my muse.
Can you feel it?
That deep,
Throbbing heat.
Seeding the nubile
Moist furrows, of
Your mind.
You know who,
You are, reader.
Was it as good for you,
As it was for me?

Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour

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