Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight:
but all things are naked and opened
unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do.
When first I met you, girly-girl
you gave my hormones quite a whirl
believing I had found the pearl, Porneia . . .
The shell was richer than your charm
assuring me you meant no harm
my stroke of luck: you clasped my arm, Porneia.
You called me with that sultry voice
and made me think I had no choice, Porneia.
You glistened in a fantasy
of pixillating pink HD.
Your flesh tone’s ever-changing hue
sure made me want to do it to
that someone just beyond my view, Porneia.
I emptied every magazine
in search of angles yet unseen.
The angels fell upon my screen, Porneia.
More I tasted, more I needed—
yet the bed remained unseeded
waiting for your rose to bloom,
recurring passions to resume
in contemplation of your womb, Porneia.
Exposed: your jaded artifice,
that bright celestial orifice,
I took you for a worldly muse
dead mistress of the thousand views;
my carnal will could not refuse, Porneia.
With your deceit I came to grips;
you represent true love’s eclipse—
the spurt of passion died in drips, Porneia.
Alas, our book of love must end.
The final chapter’s pages bend;
the bookmarks, now deleted, send
each one, a flower to your grave.
My sinful soul you could not save, Porneia.
Oh what has come between us, princess?
Now your rare allure evinces
fearful alarm, the urge to flee—
our love was never meant to be.
Thus ends it all twixt me and thee, Porneia.