Love, As Enounced By an Emotionally Transient Man Whose Movements are Admittedly Robotic and Whose Conclusions Lacking the Kind of Cosmic Foresight N

A challenge was issued to compose a piece about Love. This is one of the entries. This is the love tag for all (my) entries.
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Love, As Enounced By an Emotionally Transient Man Whose Movements are Admittedly Robotic and Whose Conclusions Lacking the Kind of Cosmic Foresight Normally Attributed to People with Beards This Long

We were harvested from their experiment
of evacuating a middle-sized town
(they cut off all electricity
gas, water -- all such utility).
Then released us cocaine addicts
into their middle-sized compound.

Just to see what we may do, but ...
we were made for one another, me and you.

Sunlight at a gas station, bleeding from an eye,
now God was well in this shit too.
Running His little tests, as you had then confessed,
wiping at my 'bruise' from your stiletto shoe.
Is this clean gauze, from the Exxon store? I asked.

Naw, found it near that canal, you cooed.
So I thrust my fist up your cunt, squeezed your ovaries till you went blue.

Soon after that, I'd turned feverish from some swinish flu.
You shot all the other cocaine zombies by yourself, those days as they approached.
Simultaneously, incredibly, nursing me back to health --
-- hence do I leer, past tense of pigs fly.

It was only fortunate for me, that helicopters arrived
just as I realized you'd been using me as food.

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They say we are the naturally selected,
from a slew of cocaine infected.
Having succeeded, we're to be injected
into a brand new group.

Oxytocin is the word around the labs.
heard it while they were checking me up.
Scientists are typically silent,
but when they blab, oh their elaborations.

I'm told everyone else there Believes in Love like it's a God.
Absolutely everyone, except, soon of course ... us.
Will we be turned, by their shear numbers, their overwhelming compassion?
Or will we be shark-like automatons, moving constantly, eating --
-- that prescient couple who knows or cares nothing of sheep-speak?

My nine remaining fingers,
as well a missing portion of one of my calves
tingle at this possible future.
Whether in horror at memory of you or under some pavlovian arousal,
it is still too unclear.