Radioactive Core of Bliss

Sex was made for poems! –
or poems were made for sex.
Whatever their causes, effects –
they make the perfect mixture –
fixture – mess: pressuring each
last scintilla of the language
and the flesh to copulate
and correlate and mesh –

and keep the whole thing fresh.
What perplexes is quite how to say
the thing without resorting
to the sorts of fling which one
deploys in fetishistic porn –
or sugary worn-out erotica –
or other forms of self-involved
exotica. Oh, I could tell you

stories of how I evinced this
sweat: but that would hardly
spin the bet that sex and poetry
would have me set, and win.
I cannot shovel notions into
you or anybody else of my
delicious private sin. You
couldn’t take it in. But surely we

agree on this: that poetry exacts
the radioactive core of bliss;
anything less, and it will miss.
So what else could appease?
Transport-states of shameless
sleaze – the trespass which
trespasses most. Hot breath is
its body, warm words are its ghost.

.