Boinking in the Bouganvillas

I could say the earth had given us a downy bed
the flowers bifurcated
in the gentle approach of your back,
the bees humming a harmony
with your sighs,
but really,
we were boinking.

Straight up barbaric, with your legs
opening into a greater than symbol
with me on the wrong side
and I called you my nutcracker sweet
as we did that dance of love
except really, there were no steps
because we were lying down
because we were fucking.

Sometimes that’s what it is.
They say it’s not OK to be horny
these days, agendas lurking
under the blankets of every stranger’s bed
so we go outside
where the lovebugs fly
in shameful tandem past our faces
and I learn the right places to rub
to quiet the borborygmus butterflies
in your stomach
into a long, slow
shhhhh

but wait,
was that poetry?
Sorry.
I’ll shut up now
and get to work.


by Tod

--

So, uh ... yeah. All my poems are not about sex, OK? I swear. I'm not sure what the deal was with this one. Memory is a little hazy, but I believe it was a joint effort on the part of a lad and his ladyfriend. I do know that he picked the title, and the word "borborygmous" (means a rumbly tummy, basically). The girl then read it out loud in front of me, substituting the word "effing". She actually said "oh my" like she had the vapors or something. Beautiful.