Hmm, I came across this old poem of mine about Erectile Dysfunction of all subjects while clearing out some files. You don't read many poems of this sort; tee hee. It goes a bit prosy in the middle and has some rather inexplicable line breaks but I don't feel much like changing it. !


When it comes to coitus, men

have a hard time: they depend

on hydraulics. Other mammals have a bone,

it allows them to stay inside

for as long as she permits -

the Blue Whale's support is a yard long -

but man needs plumbing, sluices, gates,

a cascade of fluid mechanics

for blood to enter the expectant member.

Squeezed along hundreds

of corkscrew vessels,

it rushes in at fifty times its normal rate,

floods the filigree pipework.

At one discouraging signal,

the valves close, the supply fails,

arterial valves swing shut,

fluid sluices out and the virile

apparatus droops, the path

from brain to phallus

a clear sweep. So we start

with chemistry but end

in physics: an exercise in pumps.

This, then, is the looped brilliance

of desire, the neat circuitry of love.


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