The lustful burden of love!

If love is in the eye of the beholder where precisely is lust located?

By Stanley Collymore

 

Don’t tell me; you’ve fallen in love again and

this time it’s for real! How many times have

I previously heard from you that same old

and unconvincing spiel? And when

will you ever learn not to confuse love

with lust, as time and time again you

miserably fail to distinguish the

one from the other or fully

acknowledge that the

two aren’t by any

means one and

the same?

 

Lust, let me candidly spell it out for you,

is the process where you do absolutely

nothing at all to even remotely suppress the

unbridled sexual urges that wantonly and

lasciviously assail your yearning body

as one would circumspectly expect

you to do; love, however, while

evidently recognizing and

certainly willing to enjoy these state-of-

affairs as well, nevertheless enjoins

itself in a more dignified and

erudite manner than lust

is either capable of

or could ever

muster.

 

For although the carnal fascination,

coital intentions and bonking routines

are unmistakably the same with love as

they obviously are with lust and prevalently

there, lust’s only aspirations are distinctly

impermanent, short lived and offer

no commitment at all, let’s be perfectly

clear; while for its part the emphasis

of love is to secure a freehold of

the chosen object’s heart and

what’s more do so on

a committed and

established

basis.

 

© Stanley V.Collymore

27 January 2014.

 

Comment:

In our contemporary, western society where the expertise of wooing is a dying skill, leg-overs are considered far more interesting and important than leg-ups and as such made more welcome, and a well-placed knee slotted seductively between the thighs and complemented by an ostentatious grab of the buttocks, fondling of inviting tits an a concerted thrust of the tongue down the recipient’s eager throat are now the customary mode of initial introductions between previous strangers to each other and bizarrely and quite delusionarily misrepresented as what realistically they inconceivably can never be; it’s hardly surprising then that for sometime now, and significantly too at an alarming pace, what has resulted is a society largely comprised of dysfunctional oiks.

 

Oiks vainly searching amidst their “how’s your father” escapades leading to sexual encounters that are seldom if ever earth shattering in nature, and which in turn give rise to the participants finding themselves either caught up or actively involved in serial acts of infidelity as they desperately embark on their fruitless search for the elusive Holy Grail of Love is sadly all too commonplace.

 

All the same I’d like to dedicate this poem to Ulrika Jonsson, Nigella Lawson, the late Jimmy Savile, Paddy Ashdown, Simon Cowell, Senator John McCain, Françoise Hollande and several others, including the many cuckolders and their offspring ignorant of their situation, who quite literally provided me with the inspiration to write it but who are far too numerous to mention here. Thank you all!