The Third World War

by Hans Plomp


Lover, you are life to me,
where you are not, I shall not be.
You won’t find me on the battlefields
or in a monastery,
not in the mines, or on the moon,
nor in a factory.
Lover, with your gentle grace
life has slipped into my lonely place.
You turn our tools of creation
into a key to divine sensation.
I want to be what brings out your beauty,
I want to be what makes your love flow,
I want to be what makes your power grow.
Your ears yield bitter soma,
your asshole tastes like ambrosia,
and nectar drips from your yoni,
holiest of grails.
Come, there’s no more to be said,
the third world war is fought in bed.