Most likely, this is the only - or, well, one out of very few - erotical (meaning erotically charged) poems I will ever write. It is actually quite fixed on sex. Believe it or not or, preferrably, read for yourself.
"Perfect Match" - a rare occurence
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, looking for Love...keeps looking for Love...will always be looking for Love...I guess!
this is a cup
shaped to fit
within my palm
this is a hatch
onto which my fingers
easily grasp hold
this is a formation
so perfectly enveloped
by fingers closed around
**
I'd embrace thee, hold thee tighter than what pleasant is
But you'd moan not out of physical pain or discomfort
I'd caress thee, stroke thee firmer than what gentle is
But you'd look at me with tenderness and grace
Open your eyes, wonder, close your eyes, sombre
Your shielded not by your sombrero, but by divinity's bliss
Quite simply, prober, when your awake, sobre
Your twist is not in your sobritey, but in your sweetest kiss
Informal courtesy, that's you, imperfect clemency, that too,
a bodily appearance is nothing - but a shell,
although it doesn't hurt - one might then add, as well,
when a casket holds a beauty just like the beauty found inside
**
I might be rewarded all too greatly
When I one day am finally done
But the better prize is living won
In whose company love plays magically
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