On Sex

"Biology designed the dance. Terror timed it. Dictated the rhythm with which their bodies answered each other. As though they already knew that for each tremor of pleasure they would pay with an equal measure of pain. As though they knew that how far they went would be measured against how far they would be taken" - Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex" - Adolus Huxley

Two bodies intertwined in the dark,
Seeking pleasure they possess not,
Inflicting their desires on each other's parts,
They hold each other in a cold, tight clasp,
A carnal flame that pined to burn since each was a child,
Today blazed forth, turning them both wild,
Some are possessed by passion, lying on a private stage,
In a vengeful attempt to satisfy their lecherous rage,
And then there are the gentle ones, for whom it is usual,
To engage in something sensual,
An act that seldom misses attention,
Turning heads, causing hushed discussion,
Praised, ridiculed, sought - in books, songs and the internet,
Always extreme, seldom moderate,
It seems magical indeed to the deluded one,
Who deems it pure, exotic and fun,
While nature's beauty does overwhelm one,
Compatible bodies that entangle into one,
It still ceases not to be an act for progeny,
A fact forgotten by many,
Men, who waste their lives thirsty for flesh,
Based on misplaced ideals of relish,
"Evolved" beings of stardust,
Revelling in pointless lust,

It is the pinnacle of overrating,

So hyped that they call it something sacred,

Yes, heartlessly so, love, they call it,

When did a thing of the body meet the inner heart?

A mere moment of thrill that lasts not a second,
And takes a long time before it can be beckoned,
The acme of embellishment,
The summit of exaggeration,
With peripherals relating to forced pleasure,
And acquired taste, like liquor,
Nay, only a beast would call it pleasure,
Even animals value it lesser.
An act a dog knows, matters less than food,
But man fails to realise it does no good,
A pleasure that lasts hardly a minute,
But for which one spends months, years in pursuit,
Instinct, they call it, but is it really so?
A runaway hormone that refuses to go,
Merely a plate that is closed to attract attention
Just another act, like breathing, eating and defecation.

Written over the last few days.