Sex

We are sexual creatures.

Denial of this fact

Will lead only to an insurmountable struggle.

Not unlike a dam

Battling the perpetual current.

 

It is the manifestation

Of the Chemical Love

In its instrument;

The body.

 

It is, don't you know,

The root of everything.

The sexy became the survivor

A qualifier modified through history. 

 

Mankind has oft attempted 

To make new rules,

To leash the lion

If the lion desired a lioness

From a different pride,

Or she him.

Or when they meet in secret

In the dead of night

Without the pride's approval.

And especially when the lion

Preferred the company of his fellow lions.

 

Had we any ounce of common sense,

We would have known

That the lion does not care

To be leashed

And if the leash remains 'round its neck

For too long and is pulled too tight

Its holder will be in for

A red-stained surprise.

 

The leash, as it stands today,

Is frayed;

Held together only by

A few desperately grasping threads.

 

The lion,

As it lurks in all of us,

Is nearly free

And nothing is to stop it

From becoming completely so.

 

So what, now, 

Shall we do

With our own lions?

 

The obvious

And only rational answer

Is to let them run free

Under a sensible

But unrepressive master.

 

Of course, 

The lion is subject

To its own natural borders.

 

On a daily basis,

It is faced with 

The despised.

The neutral.

The friend who simply cannot accommodate 

The lion's unique desire,

Nor would you want them to,

Regardless of the depths

To which your pilings sink

Or the strength of your mooring ties.

 

Indeed, when Man drops the harsh leash,

There is a gentler one

Grasped in the hands

Of Chemical Love.

 

This leash, however,

Is far more conducive

To Love's aims.

 

And it's release is signaled

With a clamour

Of vocal undulations

That pour untethered:

From the heaving breast,

Out of the deepest primal abyss.

 

Bodies tight and strained;

Dissolved into chaotic unity

In libertine, transcendental

Ecstasy.