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Enigma “The Principles of Lust”
“The body is the tree of enlightenment,
The mind like a clear mirror stand;
Time and gain wipe it diligently,
Don’t let it gather dust.”
Wherever did all the passion go? Is it no longer fashionable? When exactly did the body cease being a shrine to worship and become a weapon of crass misconstruction? For how long has intimacy entailed only the invasion of privacy, leaned away from the persuasion of anything resembling dignity. Resulted only in expelled fluids and the indifference which tends to duly follow. These shamefully hollow exercises in instant gratification are loss leaders for translation. Delivering us into temptation, then forbidding us from straying too far. Like a hundred meter dash, we activate tunnel vision, and sprint for the finish line in the vague hope of achieving those personal best times. By doing so, we disqualify ourselves from sanctifying our souls. As the only thing that truly matters is the end goal.
Is not a gentleman a gentleman and a lady a lady? Has the manifesto changed and, if so, then must we be required to let go of time-honored values just to play the game? Is our best hope to yo-yo from the get-go to got what we came for? After all, everyone else does the same so it can’t be all that shameful. A tad distasteful perhaps, and another ungrateful of that which was once considered sacred. Trading our flesh for far less than its worth, these dressed down rehearsals take blessings and curse them. Reimbursing to the tune of ridiculous faces as we fritter our wages of sin. Embitter the lovers within. Then roll over, feign slumber, and wonder where all the time went.
It’s a blur and voices only through chemical slur as it defers the revealing of any feeling not entirely self-fulfilling. Unwilling to entertain the needs of any virtual observers as their solitary purpose is to serve us unswervingly. Servicing our need to get our very own sick kicks, each light-headed fix is a broken vow to ourselves. Not to mention a deception as it erects a wall of lies and cries out for our undivided attention. For a bicycle made seemingly for two, it curiously has but a single saddle. Like a rowboat with one paddle it flounders and sounds only the alarms once this vessel has been breached.
Sinking like nymph victims, deeper into the sleep hold, nothing freehold as we seize hold of something flawless and flat-out ignore its incandescence. The heavens weep their curdled tears for fears we’ll show up at the gates at a later date, after such fragrant displays of temptation’s gestation. Angels turn their faces in thrusting disgust, passing judgments only heaven knows how to master. They bait us through pornography as it is all a wicked game you see. And God forbid we taste the fruit of the poisonous tree.
“I will climb the palm tree; I will take hold of its fruit. May your breasts be like clusters of grapes on the vine, the fragrance of your breath like apples”
“and your mouth like the best wine. May the wine go straight to my beloved, flowing gently over lips and teeth.”
– Song of Songs 7:6-12
The Gods may be crazy but it’s their laziness which chafes most. By opening the holy scripture to such scrutiny, mutiny was only ever a short wait from heating up debate. The sins of the flesh are all accounted for through verse, but it’s ultimately entrapment as their blurred words coerce us into forsaken engagements. We humans are such easy prey, we make it simple for these devils by playing their vile game and it is only ever in danger of concluding one way. Eternal banishment from the fields of the lord, pending one full and final humiliation, as it turns out they’ve been taping each transgression and any despairing confessions on our part will ultimately amount to nothing.
Sin is not the flesh itself. It is whether or not we elect to consecrate it. Not to appease a shady deity or flee venereal diseases. To call out the sleaze as precisely what it is – grievous. All peep shows and glory-holes; red lights and torn off tights. Stripped bare of all meaning, beyond the borderline of demeaning, a playground densely populated with fuck fiends and speed demons. Nothing sensual, just a string of inconsequential liaisons, with nothing whatsoever left to the imagination. And sex then becomes little more than recreational.
These blinkered spies view the naked form as a mere token prize, when there really is no more bountiful a sight than the skin that we are in. The right pair of eyes will see this. Not glare like night owls and objectify, simply dance along the contours and electrify. Glancing not to cause alarm, but to bless every inch of this hallowed turf and watch the flowers bloom. This is where the true passion lies. Behind the doubled up glaze of true bedroom eyes. They may have died too many times in the past to care greatly for reprise, but they tell us no lies when they reflect the same azure skies. Even in twilight.
“Intoxicated, I lay sleeping in tranquility
My bed, no longer frozen and hostile
I need not physicality to satisfy my desire
I require only,
The heat of a summer night,
And your eyes reflecting the glow of low hung moons
Documented within the pages of my nights memoirs
My slumber, has never been so convivial.”
– L.H. Grey
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
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