I have always always felt the best things in life hit the same spot on your brain to elicit essentially the same reaction, Happiness, by some hormonal play or the other. But for me, the two best things that can ever happen to me, giving birth to a poem or making love to a woman, are very similar at a very procedural level. This is why...
The Game resembles a poem
The birth of a poem
It starts with trance, or of losing the selfish self
I am a slave
To an idea yet to form
To the promise of pleasure yet to come
I am a mind, only a mind, consumed by just one thought
I am a body, nothing but a body, consumed by desire
The words are elusive, as if a 'lil shy
Like a familiar word long gone by
Like 'pittoo' , like 'rainy-day', childhood or the library room left ajar
She sits close, just a little far.
The words I can grasp but not quite grip; they tease
Like bra straps,hooks, buttons and zip
We rush ahead of time, like the Budhdha, Cobain or Scorcese
An abundance of words, gold, a pirate and a defenseless ship.
Wonder which is more primal to Man
A thirst for words or a crave for completion
The words, precious and perfect, fall in line
Like 2 bodies, complete and in rhythm divine
What follows is infinite bliss
A poem, two lovers, joy and peace.
1 comment:
Interesting read. Although I am not much of a poet, I would agree with Feynman, that although sex has some practical applications, but that is not why we do it. Poetry on the other hand serves very little practical purpose and YET there are relentless poets like you. At the end of it all, it's the orgasm that matters which far exceeds any need for practicality.
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