Phallus Aforethought

Am I the only one who thinks it odd    
that in all the annals of creation    
there was once some strange craftsmanship from god  
of darts incarnate by blood elation    
and that love depends on circulation    
of cocktail ingredients from parts...  
in... genitourinary station...  
subservient to all pulse pounding hearts    
ever to find themselves a slave to love    
and by such a bond seek the pleasure    
thricely as thrilling as some god above    
all of the other loves that we treasure...  
and thus the links twixt love and vanity    
sometimes cue...mixed message insanity  
whereby Rube Goldberg darts, though heaven sent,  
are often by Cupid...too seldom spent.  
   
Muse Visitation...  
   
She wore a bright dress of nacreous cloth    
when she shimmered into dream existence    
commanding beauty in her regal swath    
of elegant deity persistence...  
to dance with me at the poetry ball,  
hip to hip, as a stately lady would;  
a stately lady in a marble hall,    
where I, with this Olympic goddess stood,  
to muse with me as she led me to dance...  
yet, her words were so difficult to hear;  
advice on love and eternal romance    
and the heart of a mortal sonneteer...  
where her Helicon magic detected    
some despondency about Cupid's dart  
and how it had never been perfected    
to operate without falling apart    
or to stay as sure as troth directed.    
   
Then, she departed as she had arrived,  
leaving her portrait, like a clear echo,  
which at my waking had weirdly survived    
somewhere between heaven, and art deco;  
   
the pearl dress, sable hair, courtly face:  
Hope!  Ensembled...in scintillation grace!