His parts fit her holes perfectly,
she, supposing he fills in those missing,
and what would have been if she missed
him kissing the other before her?
Would she have sensed it on him-
the remnants of relations he wanted
neither keep nor throw away?
Though, can he be blamed for his parts
that bring him to the lair but
made the loveless?
But can her gender, her being, her female
believe that a man must lust to be living?
That there lies no meaning in the dreaming
of another woman’s part?
Or that of one much younger,
because doesn’t every male hunger
for the fresh-cut slit
of tender sandwiched meat?
And where does love slide in
when her hollow dip
is just another tip-filled piece
to an unmatchable mystery?
How can you and I,
Stem and Petal,
ever truly be growing in earnest?
And how can we deny the echoes of evolution?
My invisible clock ticking
with your need to tock any body that's fecund,
you want to feel the fruits of your labor
while I just want to sit at the table with
ONE hunter gatherer,
MY homo sapien that craves the taste of only these juices,
a single rectangle made for this solitary circle,
but broken hearts in cyclical loss
turn shattered spokes into sad spoken word.
I may be a realist,
but I want that positive spin.
And the truth is
this rationalizing
is useless-
it's science that has screwed us.
The tides of centuries past crash
leaving you, learning what I yearn for
and perfecting deceptions
while I look in your eyes for sensitivities
never in your possession,
it's senseless.
But I still find myself tearing the spines
of science textbooks
fingering shorn edges of papers
and pretending it's not survival of the fittest
but of the wisest.
The ones who know the truth about women and men
and live happily without harmony.
I know that it's in your nature to stray
that when you smell the fibrous cut of the bone your tongue salivates
that you're battling instincts you never knew existed within you
but I can't accept there is no resolution
from these tragic revolutions of loves lost and found
hearts torn and bound
faith imploding on itself
We hold so much within ourselves
No, this,
is not an occasion for flowers.
You: stem,
me: petal,
we will never truly be growing
together
forever
in earnest.
she, supposing he fills in those missing,
and what would have been if she missed
him kissing the other before her?
Would she have sensed it on him-
the remnants of relations he wanted
neither keep nor throw away?
Though, can he be blamed for his parts
that bring him to the lair but
made the loveless?
But can her gender, her being, her female
believe that a man must lust to be living?
That there lies no meaning in the dreaming
of another woman’s part?
Or that of one much younger,
because doesn’t every male hunger
for the fresh-cut slit
of tender sandwiched meat?
And where does love slide in
when her hollow dip
is just another tip-filled piece
to an unmatchable mystery?
How can you and I,
Stem and Petal,
ever truly be growing in earnest?
And how can we deny the echoes of evolution?
My invisible clock ticking
with your need to tock any body that's fecund,
you want to feel the fruits of your labor
while I just want to sit at the table with
ONE hunter gatherer,
MY homo sapien that craves the taste of only these juices,
a single rectangle made for this solitary circle,
but broken hearts in cyclical loss
turn shattered spokes into sad spoken word.
I may be a realist,
but I want that positive spin.
And the truth is
this rationalizing
is useless-
it's science that has screwed us.
The tides of centuries past crash
leaving you, learning what I yearn for
and perfecting deceptions
while I look in your eyes for sensitivities
never in your possession,
it's senseless.
But I still find myself tearing the spines
of science textbooks
fingering shorn edges of papers
and pretending it's not survival of the fittest
but of the wisest.
The ones who know the truth about women and men
and live happily without harmony.
I know that it's in your nature to stray
that when you smell the fibrous cut of the bone your tongue salivates
that you're battling instincts you never knew existed within you
but I can't accept there is no resolution
from these tragic revolutions of loves lost and found
hearts torn and bound
faith imploding on itself
We hold so much within ourselves
No, this,
is not an occasion for flowers.
You: stem,
me: petal,
we will never truly be growing
together
forever
in earnest.
