THERE IS A BORDER

Image result for rape of proserpina in sculpture

“Cold pastoral” —Keats

Enticement is blind,

For enticement,

With its beautiful flame, does not

Count nearly as much as the reason—the goal that’s in the mind.

Do not ask why love belongs to birth, or that breeding

Is fed by the forbidden thrill pornography is feeding;

Fleshy enticement is not meant to offend;

It is enticement only, for a specific end.

You may not participate in lust

Unless you surrender your sanity to beauty and her madness,

Losing all sense of civility and safety and trust.

Look at these prisoners of love;

Can you detect a restlessness and sadness

As they are drawn to pictures and mirrors

Of continual winter: a whirl of candied, perfect flesh,

A lovely storm of pussies and nipples;

These prisoners of love, these cripples,

Know lusty wind isn’t warm; it’s cold; lust always new and fresh,

Forming the perfect model, the writhing statue

Of what they always wanted, and always, in secrecy, knew.

The border between pornography and art confuses you.

It no longer confuses me.

I found a cold, dark mountain pass to invade

Those couples sobbing in the shade,

Who look for love the most, and cry out loud for poetry.

 

 

 

 

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