To your eyes, ears, and tongue, and every part
my love must go; my body too.
All the time,
not only when we go to bed.
What is this life?
all its accumulations that wear us out.
Clocks, cars, conciousness, and shoes
in which there is no other meaning.
I, alone, know which to prefer
and this I love with all my heart.
Bliss it is, in your arms,
to be alive.
I believe in your flesh, the miracle,
and I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
Natural and infinite,
I like my body when it is with your body.
This is the bread come down from heaven.
Me and Mr. Jones 
you write a love poem, i post about ball gags. this should really tell me something.
But wait, I’m confused. Did you write this? Not all of it; at least one line is from an e e cummings poem (you under me as quite so new or whatever, also a bit about a cosmic tadpole wriggling in delicious mud).so is it collaboration, collage? or something else. previous commenter thought it was original…