We reduce love to the sexy acts we do within it. We clench the carnal, like a drowning man clenches a block of granite and would hope to float. All our sojourner has is his sock in his hand – a trailing remnant of monetized love with which he sickened the masses. Were poetry beneath itself, I’d imagine a sequel, where he drops it as he boards the tube – the subterranean interstate that snakes through the hinterlands beneath the city. It’s an amusement ride through Dante’s Inferno, with etched plastic seats, eye watering redolence, and token concessions to pay our way through nine debaucherous stations. Our western cat killer surfaces on the eastern side of the world, shoulder to shoulder with Virgil…they are cleansed with the light.
Carnal love can be gender-cide. And please spay and neuter your cats; you may just have an enlightened lover ready to ascend – leaving behind an open door.
