Couplets on Honeymoon in Quatrain
The Lord’s own eternal immaculate Church,
(Spotless bride, whom the godless and devils besmirch)
Will descend from the heavens when Satan is banished,
When saints have been raptured and sinners have vanished.
Apart from the fact that it’s pure allegory,
The nuptial allure appears revelatory:
A metaphor fit for the honeymoon bed
Where prophetic obsessions and Eros are wed.
Mammalian ecstasies muddy the waters:
We wallow in mire with God’s warm-blooded daughters
Adoring the carnal attractions of Eve
Where no parables speak and no prophets deceive.
I cherish the cycles of amorous life:
Getting horny enough to make use of my wife.
Her feminine treasures are what I go seeking
When love flows between us and hormones are peaking.
But then, there are days of dull marriage dysfunction
(like faith without prayer or His Word with no unction)
Which force one to ask what one saw in one’s bride:
Her interior beauty . . . or lustrous outside?
Or was it her lack of a grasp of theology
Making us reach for more basic biology?
Brides will be brides, though the heat may diminish
and Eros, like poems, must finally finish.
on my very lifelike doll.
I charge her up, I flip her switch,
and then I’m in her thrall.
She talks and smiles, she scolds and scorns,
Through wedded bliss and strife;
My genuine intelligence:
My dear long-suffering Wife.