When a man thinks of sex
He is in that orbit of planetary motion
When there is an itch and a scratch
Six inches beneath the navel
When lust speaks her language
And the heart translates on behalf of the groin
When gravity is not the sole reason
That he is keeping his testicles outside
After all a man’s heat – Not the type which is seasonal
Just like a male dog in prowl –
Has too many degrees of centigrade
Burning his megalocephalic soldiers
And the other type of ‘heat’
The kind that chases wagging tails
Even details of chest to waist ratios
For the apple fruit and avocado pulp
When the testosterone chase
Unveils the estrogen chalice
After all man is all about temperature
Bearing the skin of an endotherm
While burning to the exothermic reaction
Of making earth-shattering love.

Kiss

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