Lo! he abhors not the Virgin’s womb
He casts the mighty from their thrones and raises the lowly
In adult sexual love the male is, sulphurously, cuntstruck. This condition secures two things. The likelihood of the impregnation of the woman and the devotion of the male to the female and to her offspring. You ask where is romantic love in this? I don’t know. I think this is romantic love. Is this not miracle enough; a fierce love conscious of itself?
The attachment of male to the female centres around her and his genitals. It is primal and animal. She is his mate. He is hers. Highbrow, fastidious, intellectual Man wrongly thinks he is above such things. To him this is an offence, a stumbling block and the thing he revolts against, most fears to admit or to be caught believing in public however much his heart often longs to. Can his fine, preening intellect, famed for its genteel sophistication, the hinge on which the whole universe is supposed to turn, really be subjected to this? Is that mind not, fear of fears, sovereign? And yet, if he would simply settle to such things he would be blissfully happy. Away with all his pretensions! Away with his terror of appearing base and his fear of not being seen to pay lip service to the higher ideals of a Plato!
Is this to coarsen the human? Certainly it is base. Certainly it is low.
Flakes of phosphorous fall,
settle,
in this Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
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