love is madness

After all, in each other’s arms
as thoroughly exchanged in trade
as limbs and other things between
have interlapped in interplay,
my risen pulse is cycling down.
Her risen breath is evening, and

she looks up, her head on chest,
and I look down, and so we sing:

“love is madness”

…in a weird asynchronous
atonal counterpoint which
is not harmony, but sounds
raw, wild and robotic like
some German blip rok forbear
could’ve used on one of their
art college collage punk pranks
of song.

We do it again, insistently:

“love is madness”

…wrong all wrong!
This time it sucked!

So we bust out laughing,
and she flips in to spoon mode
nestling back to front, and I
clasp around and down, and
alone with her now, I say

to myself:

“Love is madness.”

Shh

she says