I thought about him as I woke up this morning... [poetry]

I thought about him as I woke up this morning.

I'm not sure whether it was the bad dream

Or the fact that sometimes, you can't help but miss

What you can't hold, what you can't touch,

What impregnated your body and touched your mind

In the violent and charming ways of a hummingbird

Flapping yellow in the virgin purple of a prunella.

I thought about him fondly, passionately, angrily,

Wondering what it meant to be in love with a man

Whose flesh you tasted, whose heart you ate,

Whose body you tied and buried, with your own hands...

Maybe specters haunt us in uncanny ways,

Like cold breeze sifting through door sills,

Uninvited, into everyday life, late night dreams 

And spring mornings as we lay spread eagle

Licking the taste of blood off our parched lips.

Maybe abandoned lovers leave stains that, 

No matter how hard you try, how hard you rub

(Bleach, detergent, soap...)

Come back and show dissimulated dirt

Under carpets, covers, bandages, skins

And under the pretence of joy, sunshine, clear skies

And bittersweet dew of memories on Spring mornings.

Untitled Poem [or three Haikus in English]

[I leave this poem untitled. I just want to point out that the Haiku in English (link here) is not to be confused with the Haiku (link here). They're both two different genres, at least according to me.]

---------------------------

Tin foil, havocked roof

Cold body exposed, shameless

Run-down hut, dark night.

Red toes, muggy tongue

Shapeless burn of alcohol

Wretched navel, pain.

Dead cat, fiery hair

Broken bottle, scattered ash

He tiptoes away.

Untitled [poem]

That taste

That smell 

My tongue

Your pungent sweat

And the depth of my nose.

This whiff

This liquid

Your rough skin

My sweaty pubic hair

And the curve of your armpit.

The Short Journey [sonnet]

Lipstick stains on the rim of a mug;

Down to the depths, red, her long legs,

Shoed in the darkness of coffee dregs,

Plant a kiss on the brim with a shrug.

I smell you with my tongue like a drug;

A whiff smirks, in love, a breath begs

For the lock of a kiss that pegs

Your being onto mine: our tongues snug.

You remember the tip of a blade of grass

Where we found a pearl made of glass;

The sun had furled itself at dusk,

Covered our love in its husk?

On the rim of that mug, the tip of that blade

Was a (too) short journey: our love frayed.

Tomorrow, The Train [poetry]

Amidst crumpled leaves, the ring of a bell.

The afternoon train passes
Like voluminous thunder
Boiling
To a soothing flame
A kettle

Cradles us, steady rhythm.

The rhythm-- anchored

A moment in time

Immovable-- a rock, a wooden track.

Metal wheels screech to a slower pace,

A ripple flows and disappears...

It passes.

The bell no longer rings
Hot bubbles in the distance

Yet--

The imprint, alive, amidst the leaves,

The pebbles, the wooden bridge.

Tomorrow, the train will be back.

Something Borrowed & Something Blue [nothing old & nothing new]

I thought I'd write a series of posts
Of things borrowed and of things blue
About things old and about things new.
I thought I'd write our love story
My love story: that's how we met,
And fell in love, and then I thought:
Maybe... Maybe there's hope too?

I thought of French deaf women
Meeting English hearing women
Falling in love for the first time
With other women, exchanging vows too.
I thought I'd speak of all those odds:
Possible impossibilities, impossible possibilities,
Meeting on different continents, and loving too.

I thought I'd narrate our story
In the tongue that we shared, dreamt,
Made milky-way plans, that we destroyed too.
I also wanted to write us an ode,
A dedication to us, to you
But like wet earth that dries to scorching sun,
I ran out of words, of lines,
Of feelings, and of love too.

So this is the world's oldest story
Repeated heart-beat of a ballad ancient:
For I might have something borrowed,
I might have feelings blue,
But it's the same refrain, the same song
And that's nothing old and nothing new.

i remember the first time [free verse/lyric/dub poetry]

i remember the first time we made love
it was exactly two years ago
a colonizing moment is what i'd called it
that was the first time i'd let you
or anyone for that matter
fuck me enter me penetrate me
colonize me colonize my body colonize my soul
(colonize my love?)

you entered me with with a lack of might
your lack of conviction pinned me down
with the softness of your arms and the strength of your skin
you swayed on top of me
like a cherry shaking in fear
shaky shaky shaky
scared scared scared
of sliding off the top of this mount of melting cream
i wanted to scream scream scream at you
and beg beg beg you
to hurt me
to plant your seed deeper in me

i often think of power dynamics
but not in an academic foucaultian way
i think of the thin line between love and hate
the thin line between pleasure and pain

on that day I saw myself in your eyes
in fragments
detached and yet attached
deeply rooted in a disturbed mirror
i think of your heat inside me
i think of it as a loving moment
i think of it as a colonizing moment
i think of it as an orgasm an orgasm an orgasm

an orgasm that never came

i know it's been two years and yet
i go from ghost town to ghost town
i travel and i yearn
like a corpse that didn't get buried
i think of your hair between my teeth,
(you remember your hair between my teeth?)
i think of the mess we created,
the havoc of cum and lube we smudged in between our sticky bodies
i think of the violence with which i bit your nipples
the loving ways in which you clamped my ears
i think of power dynamics not just in an academic foucaultian way

i remember the first time we made love
it was exactly two years ago
i had wrapped myself in your skin
i remember the first time we made love
it was exactly two years ago
you had graciously unwrapped my love gift skin
i remember the wetness
i yearn for the love
i remember the warmth
i yearn for the harm

but above all

i yearn for the white cock that colonized my black body

Rock-Paper-Scissor [free verse]

When we were in school, they taught us to play

Rock-Paper-Scissor. They instructed us

to fold, unfold and display. The same game

I now play in quite different milieu.

It's now gloved and oiled that my fingers twist,

that my thumb touches the rim round your wrist,

And it's with fingered Rock-Paper-Scissor

that I now pierce into you, knowingly,

having been a child quick to learn the game.

I often think of Rock-Paper-Scissor.

Not only during our endless morning-

evening frolics, not only when I want

to penetrate you, go still deeper to

find the vulnerability in you;

I also think of Rock-Paper-Scissor

when we play the sadomasochistic

game of love; after I come in you with

my hands: when you flatten my heart under

your rock and I cut yours with a scissored

heart. I hear fingered blades chop, slice, slit, mince

in me; my paper heart crumbles like an

aluminum foil that wriggles and tears:

crisped crusted crushed: Rock-Paper-Scissor-Heart.

The Paper Cup [some poetry]

[It's been a long time since I posted some poetry on the blog. Please note that I am the only freak you'll encounter who's capable of 'recycling' a Tim Hortons cup into a metaphor for feelings not always articulable.]

--- 

Dawn, dry leaves wreathe in hunger

At the night falling, and the smell,

The uncertain smell of departure.

A crepuscular kitchen, a wooden floor

Steps and creaks, heels and clacks:

Sounds, uncertain, groping for

The feel, the feel of something familiar:

A switch, golden lights, an evening routine,

Lethargic, like the cycle of a caterpillar.

Close the windows, shut out desires

Step out, empty the trash, get the mail

Bills, flyers, more bills, more flyers.

And there, covered in Spring dust

Lying amidst tin-cans, cartons in a blue box

Lies the empty Tim Hortons cup.

A paper cup, moulded to the shape of your lips 

Torn at the rim by the nervousness of you teeth
A paper cup summoning you, your presence, your heavy hips.

A paper cup wetting my ears, dripping saliva from your lips

Biting my nipples like black coffee on your nervous teeth,

A paper cup inside me, crushing my legs with your heavy hips.

An empty cup, void like my soul, bound to be recycled

And your presence, summoned, called for, imagined...

A presence, I tried to, but couldn't recycle.

"Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Wall" [and yet, we keep building them...]

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall," said Robert Frost in his 1914 poem Mending Wall. Writing on the brink of the WW-I, the American poet was probably conscious of the walls that were being built between countries in Europe and Eastern-Europe while he was composing his poem... And yet at, the same time, walls were being destroyed (houses, boundaries, countries, walls of fraternity, walls of humanity, walls of dignity...) and others were being built in the shape of the giant body of the 70 million military personnel being deployed to go to war.

A century later, we are still building the same walls. Now they cement themselves in the bricks of our skin-colour, in the solidity of our sexuality, in the slabs of our political views, in the stones of who we are and the concrete of what we think. On those walls, we sublimate our urges for defecation by naming the same walls that we built, by tagging them with graffiti: 'war on terror', 'collateral damage', 'national security'...

How far removed are we from Berlin's Wall of Shame? Twenty years after it was brought down, does the shame live on while the bricks have disappeared? The violence of spaces, of what is allowed in and what is allowed out, of "good fences make good neighbours," of what protects 'us' and 'them' and what protects 'us' from 'them'...

... And this is how on January 11th, the Israeli Prime Minister, Binyamin Netanyahu has given his approval to build a wall along the border between Israel and Egypt. With the help of increased surveillance, the walls aims at keeping "infiltrators and terrorists" out of the Israeli state. Mr Netanyahu also added that the erection of the wall "is a strategic decision to secure Israel's Jewish and democratic character."

About 50-60 % of the Israeli borders are already fenced: the borders with Gaza, with Lebabon, with Jordan, and most of the West Bank. The cost of the project? $ 270 million. And while it should take two years to complete, the world may again sit and watch as yet another wall is being built and yet other 'good neighbours' are being made.

Read the full story here on Al Jazeera.

-----

And here's Robert Frost's Poem: Mending Wall (1914)

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Somewhere Along the Way [free verse]

I think I injured my heart, somewhere along the way
from Kingston to Winnipeg. I don't quite know when.
I remember that shin fracture, twelve years ago
in a dance class. Pain, acute, shrewd, stretching
a rubber-band at the threshold of constriction.

I think I injured my heart, somewhere along the way
from Kingston to Winnipeg. I don't quite know when,
I don't quite know how. It snapped like a violin cord
tensed in a diagonal between my chest and my back:
thin line, contained, faster than the speed in a red car.

I think I tore my heart, somewhere along the way
from Kingston to Winnipeg. I don't quite know when.
Somewhere on the highway we watched the silence
reflect cemeteries and empty branches in the mirror.
Something tore open which wasn't you, which wasn't me.

Here's My Guilty Pleasure [what is yours? and a poem too!]

I have to confess to my guilty pleasure. I have to put it out there. I have to make it real. I have to make it known. In the process, will I purge the pleasure and exonerate the guilt?

If I have to put my guilty pleasure in Freudian terms, it is clearly oral in nature. It's all centered around lips that can lick kiss bite suck suckle push pull pout, around tongue that can circle triangulate lick suck twist caress moist dry harsh soft, around teeth that can bite tear stitch suckle clinch stroke... And then there's the cheek, the palate, the gum, the throat...

(No, this is not a post about blow jobs!)

It's been a few weeks now that my libido seems to have channeled itself into oral pleasures. As a consequence, all I've been doing is eating, eating and eating. I don't think it's got anything to do with giving up smoking, since this oral fixation started weeks ago while I was still a smoker.

So, I've been eating. Not just any kind of eating, but a lot of junk. And not just any junk. In one day, I can manage my normal breakfast lunch diner + two chocolate donuts + four Mars bars + a pack of 150 grams of Doritos + a 200 grams Marble cake. Don't ask me how much calories this comes up to in a day: I stop counting the moment it goes over a 1000 calories. (Abashed! Abashed! Abashed!)

The pleasure is guilty in nature. I often lock myself up in my room with food and I indulge so that nobody can see me as I taste with the palate of an expert and emit orgasmic sounds. At other times, I simply hog in a barbaric way and I squeal like a fat pig.

And like this wasn't enough, instead of daydreaming of cute boys and erotic situations, in libraries, I now very regularly pine for food-orgies. I crave this Greek fantasy of a food-orgy, of eating, of filling myself up, emptying myself by vomiting and then filling myself up again. Aristotle believed that indulgence in eating pleasures (greed, satiation, immediate instinctive satisfaction etc.) was of as base a nature as sexual pleasure that sought immediate satisfaction. This doesn't make me a great human being, does it?

This being said, my sex life went dead over the past few months. You know how people say that "a vibrator can't replace a man?" Well a dear friend of mine often says that "a man can't replace a vibrator!" All I have to say is that a man can't replace food!

So here are two things before I end. I will first of all tag Astreus, Ferry Tales and Feral Geographer in this post. Why don't you three tell us about your guilty pleasure (and then tag some other blogger?) Does tagging work in the blogosphere as well? Let's try and see...

And then, a poem by Mandy Coe. Mandy Coe is a British writer whom you may be familiar with if you listen to the BBC. (Here is the link to her official website.) Mandy Coe wrote this delicious poem called: Go to Bed With a Cheese and Pickle Sandwich.


Go to Bed With a Cheese and Pickle Sandwich

It is life enhancing.
It doesn't chat you up.
You have to make it.

A cheese and pickle sandwich
is never disappointing.
You don't lie there thinking:
Am I too fat?
Too fertile?
Too insecure?

Your thoughts are clear,
your choices simple:
to cut it in half
or not to cut it in half,
how thin to slice the cheese
and where you should place the pickle.

From a cheese and pickle sandwich
you do not expect flowers,
poems and acts of adoration.
You expect what you get:
cheese... and pickle.

You want, you eat,
and afterwards you have eaten.
No lying awake resentful,
listening to it snore.

Safe snacks.
It comes recommended.

These Socks [finally: some free verse!]

- I -

Those pink socks:
When I gave them to you,
You said you hated them:
You rolled your eyes in gay fashion
You tossed your hair like a fag
In your funny accent you replied:
"I'm not wearing these socks,
They look so gayyyy!"

And yet, these socks you wore
On that day:
You looked like a fag around the city
With shorts faded like the sea,
A shirt hued with the gray of monsoon skies
Sneakers the color of shit, and...

... Those two tiny socks
Growing over your calves
Growing over your pale skin
Hiding the almost invisible hair on your legs.

Those pink socks that I loved so much,
But that you hated.

- II -

These black socks:
When he gave them to you
(Or did he forget them at your place?
Did you keep them with a design in mind?)
You decided to keep them, worship them
Like a fetish,
Like a gift from the God that he was
So you could inhale, inhale, inhale...

The smell of lavender
And shoe polish on them
So you could take in the perfection
His perfection
In crumbs inside your lungs: "Solemnity of blackness:
The perfect socks, The perfect man, The perfect smell."

Those black socks:
Did you ever wear them?
Did you just revere them?
Or did you just keep them till for the right moment?

Those black socks that you worshiped,
But that he didn't care about.

- III -

I always wondered
Why you kept his socks?

Lying there in a drawer
For months
Amongst old pictures, books,
Other fetishes.

And then,
You returned them to him
(You could have burnt them
You could have thrown them away,
But no, months later?)
Did you keep them...

... So you could return them
Using the black, the lavender, the shoe polish
As a token
To finally go back to him
To build a bridge long destroyed?
Then, when he looked at you
He saw these socks he didn’t care about
And you… Whom he didn’t care about too.

- IV -

I always wondered,
Why you never kept them pink socks?

And on that day,
You returned them to me
(you could have burnt them
you could have thrown them away?)

But no,
You returned them to me.
Was it an excuse
To thank me
For something you didn’t need?
Or did you keep them…

… So you could return them
And tell me in a quirky accent:
“They look so gayyyy!”
As you returned them socks to me,
I saw in pink on a pale skin
The reason why I threw you away,
Like an old pair of black socks,
To be thrown away.

Lines from 'The Hours'

I once more watched The Hours yesterday. I always make it a point to watch it once every-year (Angels in America being the other film that I always watch at least once every year.) Those two obviously make up two of the three DVDs I actually have in my DVD (non)-collection.

Each time I watch The Hours I can't help but be surprised by how accomplished this film is. I think is it not just one of my favorite films, but it simply is my favorite film ever. Once more, it left me with an overwhelming sense of I-don't-know-what, and I realize how much more I learn and discover from watching this film over and over again. It's like "the moment" and the "morning of possibilities" open themselves up and linger throughout the duration of the film and more. Here are two of my favorite lines from the film. The second one being the voice of Virginia Woolf allowing the closure (if closure there is at all) of the narrative:

"Am I still up for all this

All this intensity
All those arguments
Doors being slammed..."

----------------

"To look like in the face
Always, to look life in the face
And to know it for what it is
At last, to know it
To love it for what it is
And then...
... To put it away"

I Bid The Man Thank You [a sonnet]

It is somewhere by the twilight
(When orange hues give way to blue
And fairies kiss in silver light)
That I bid the man thank you:

For magic powder that looked so true
For lullabies he wrapped me in
For whistling in the wind- that too
For fairy tales cast on my skin.

Ladybird in beard, dragon-fly on shin,
Smoky flakes, a cherry velvet drape;
Musing in a snow globe, he played the violin
As I folded myself, in the seam of his cape.

I bid him an adieu, in manner somehow askew.
I kissed the man thank you with feelings somehow untrue.

A Wound Like Your Love [an unfinished poem]

[I found this poem that I had started a few weeks ago. It was supposed to be of 26 lines (i.e. three stanzas of 4 cut by one line, and another three stanzas of 4, ending with one line.) But then I never got to finishing it; actually I forgot about it! The last line of the poem was supposed to be about how his love is/was like that wound. I read the unfinished poem this morning and decided to leave it this way. I lost the sense of how it should go. But may be that's because the wound is healing?!]

-----

It started with a small cut: A line, a scratch?
Almost! Barely perceptible on my brown skin,
Like ethereal silver pressing on a pound of flesh
To stab or not to stab? To cut or not to cut?

A year later it stretched opened like a crack
In soil dead and dried, begging for water,
Imploring mercy, knee-bent, beseeching
To be covered, to be hidden under bandages.

The grotesque wound was of two minds,
Of two bodies, of two skins: My body partitioned
By the thick taste of blood and the purple of pus.
Over it I wrapped alcohol impregnated bandages:

Sterilized, clean: An act of forgetfulness.

But wounds under a bandage do not heal,
They simply hide like monsters under ones bed
And come out on full-moon nights and tug
At a hand left hanging, dangling from a sleeping body.

With the same fingers, I ripped the bandage off my skin,
I looked at the wound, deep inside, licked its beauty
Along with its pain, its pus, its rot like leeches in my flesh

Four Lines From a Poem [Lemn Sissay: Going Places]

This young man whom I regularly read posted a poem by Lemn Sissay on his blog today: Going Places. I won't post the entire poem here, but just those four lines that conclude the verse:

"I think I'll paint roads
on my front room walls
to convince myself
that I'm going places."

-- Lemn Sissay: Going Places.

(Thanks Michael.)

Funky Rhyme [a poem]

[This poem is dedicated to Tanushree, for telling me to 'Funky it up!']

She read one poem, and then two
And then more, devouring them
Words, soft as strawberries
With a flow that rises, sets, varies
Like sweet breeze through the hem
Of her skin, her hair, her breasts too.

She found the words clear and crisp
But didn't like the rhyme pattern
AA, BB, CC...
"Funky it up" she said, "and let's see
Imagination & creation take a new turn:
Your words can be more than a repetitive lisp!"

So I set out to dance to different a chime.
Decided to funky it up like a mad dictionary.
Added transgressive tastes, acknowledged diversity
Like a naughty child: disrespectful, full of perversity
New rhyme licked fingers over top of jars feeling merry,
Over tastes of green-vanilla... red-chocolate... blue-lime...

The Note-Book [a poem]

An old note-book:
Scribbles in blue ink,
Black ink and sometimes
Purple, red, pink.
Post-cards, square stamps
From here, from there,
Stick to pages of
Coffee stains, dust, saliva,
Sometimes tears
That have disappeared.

And here, and there,
Torn pages: lacerated
Like a heart
Where a relationship has ended.

The Origin Of Love [the song, the poem, thoughts etc.]

I watched John C. Mitchell's Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001) again last week and it somehow sent me on a craze (as some of you know already!) and I decided to spread to craze, or at least, write about the The Origin of Love, for those who don't know it. I discovered The Origin of Love (the poem) back in 2002, when I was in my first year in India and Reena had sent me a letter with the lyrics in it because we used to send each other very long letters at the time! I was in-fact thrilled by the poem, which got me to see the film. [As an aside, I am glad to say that watching Hedwig after all these years that included two years of film-studies, film-theory and some film-making, I still found the film astoundingly wonderful! It's a master-piece!]

The Origin of Love is based on Aristophanes' speech in Plato's Symposium (yeah, the one where they are all drunk and having a party and talking about love between men amongst others!) Stephen Trask both composed the music and wrote the lyrics, and in my opinion, there has never been such a powerful rendition of (the origin of) love. The way love itself is captured by the end of the song is simply out-of-this-world, so I shall not try to describe it. Instead, I shall leave you here with the poem itself, and I long hesitated between posting the audio track or the video from the film or Rufus Wainright's outstanding cover of the song; and I decided to go for the video from the film. My students keep saying that they are a "visual" generation, so I shall go by that! Oh, and for those who haven't figured out the hew header to the blog, it may just give you some insight into why it's there!

Happy Aesthetic Experience:

When the earth was still flat,
And the clouds made of fire,
And mountains stretched up to the sky,
Sometimes higher,
Folks roamed the earth
Like big rolling kegs.
They had two sets of arms.
They had two sets of legs.
They had two faces peering
Out of one giant head
So they could watch all around them
As they talked; while they read.
And they never knew nothing of love.
It was before the origin of love.

The origin of love

And there were three sexes then,
One that looked like two men
Glued up back to back,
Called the children of the sun.
And similar in shape and girth
Were the children of the earth.
They looked like two girls
Rolled up in one.
And the children of the moon
Were like a fork shoved on a spoon.
They were part sun, part earth
Part daughter, part son.

The origin of love

Now the gods grew quite scared
Of our strength and defiance
And Thor said,
"I'm gonna kill them all
With my hammer,
Like I killed the giants."
And Zeus said, "No,
You better let me
Use my lightening, like scissors,
Like I cut the legs off the whales
And dinosaurs into lizards."
Then he grabbed up some bolts
And he let out a laugh,
Said, "I'll split them right down the middle.
Gonna cut them right up in half."
And then storm clouds gathered above
Into great balls of fire

And then fire shot down
From the sky in bolts
Like shining blades
Of a knife.
And it ripped
Right through the flesh
Of the children of the sun
And the moon
And the earth.
And some Indian god
Sewed the wound up into a hole,
Pulled it round to our belly
To remind us of the price we pay.
And Osiris and the gods of the Nile
Gathered up a big storm
To blow a hurricane,
To scatter us away,
In a flood of wind and rain,
And a sea of tidal waves,
To wash us all away,
And if we don't behave
They'll cut us down again
And we'll be hopping round on one foot
And looking through one eye.

Last time I saw you
We had just split in two.
You were looking at me.
I was looking at you.
You had a way so familiar,
But I could not recognize,
Cause you had blood on your face;
I had blood in my eyes.
But I could swear by your expression
That the pain down in your soul
Was the same as the one down in mine.
That's the pain,
Cuts a straight line
Down through the heart;
We called it love.
So we wrapped our arms around each other,
Trying to shove ourselves back together.
We were making love,
Making love.
It was a cold dark evening,
Such a long time ago,
When by the mighty hand of Jove,
It was the sad story
How we became
Lonely two-legged creatures,
It's the story of
The origin of love.
That's the origin of love