October 3, 2009

No Reason for Love: Chant Royal by freepoland

Filed under: Uncategorized — mishari @ 2:07 AM

Fuseli-The Nightmare

No Reason for Love

Were Hobbes and Locke and Newton so august,
So bent on butting hard at thought’s frontier,
That in their souls there was no room for lust?
Their minds, engorged with concepts so severe,
Their deep inheritance, has left us gravel dry;
Our pulse may beat, but how hard must we lie?
All day my flesh it yearns for touches light,
My tongue for taste of skin in liquid night.
There’s no philosophy as good that could be penned
No theory that could stretch me to a height.
This longing has no reason, has no end.

I know philosophers must earn a crust
To pay for words and coal and watery beer,
But luxury and fornication, both, we must
Have often: thoughts are too austere.
There’s no analysis can comprehend a thigh
That’s warm against the loin, no reason why
The hair that strokes my neck in soft delight,
The perfume that enfolds me with its might
Should not all harsh dialectic transcend
And grant me deepest physical insight.
This longing has no reason, has no end.

In high scholastic thinking, love is just
A necessary labour, entered on to cheer
The failing appetite; it’s proof against the rust
Of long exposure to the bitter clear
Waters of the pool of learning. To try
To teach the mind how it must feel is high
In old mens’ teaching to their acolytes:
Pah! Rot is talked by ageing sybarites;
They sweat in vain, they have no juice to spend;
The best they’ll do is stroke their catamites.
This longing has no reason, has no end.

The dogs of night take pleasure in the dust
And with their mates in Venus persevere.
They bark, they nip, they butt, they mount, they thrust,
They howl their love like any sonneteer.
But the yellow men of learning classify,
They footnote, and they gloss the stimuli.
Masters and Johnson’s work they know to cite
And will rehearse the science sans respite.
From excitement up to plateau is the trend;
They’ll call the stage of orgasm ‘dynamite’
But longing has no reason, has no end.

There’s sure a way to love that’s more robust,
A path that’s not all fouled with logorrhoea;
A bed where we can lie for weeks and trust
We’re not defined by specious scrutineers.
This private place, it has no termini;
It’s only there for us to gratify
Each, all and every sense, and to ignite
A fire so red and hot and fierce and bright
We’ll stoke it, stroke it, poke at it my friend,
And keep it burning beyond Fahrenheit.
This longing has no reason, has no end.


When pedants print their findings, copyright
They’re welcome to. Their amorous goodnights
Are gaseous words worth only a fag end.
There’s no explaining love’s dark meteorites.
This longing has no reason, has no end.


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