Majestic bodily excursions. Sojourns in flesh, up fleshy mountains and flesh filled ridges, and entire valleys full of fertile flesh. Womanly and sweet, flesh-toned and compository, all these bodies of I and their afflictions of I, but nowhere is mind except in this womb-palace of the pureland and its flesh fulfilling fantasy. Temples of erect nipples and fully fleshed out clitorises. Lonesome this body is in search of pleasing that which does not exist. Fully illusory. Is this sensation of forfeiting pleasure for the pleasure of denial like the painful virgin’s entry. This suggestion of copulation, ignorance and such is Samsara, this being more obvious, has it the potential to shatter this and every other practice? Mind lingers, the lonesome flesh excretes Dharma in black ink on lined pages in a flesh-filled notebook of my own delusions. So much for poetry, this Kerouac-esque rambling now turns towards Bauldelaire. Darkness and lesbians to the likes of Sappho now haunt me, that Greek Haiku Goddess, and all the Hungry Ghosts I’ve been who snuck into the ancient Greek and Roman Orgies, if only just to get a peak at what they have been hungry for, starve now altogether in the preaching arches of Samsara, with all clenching at this longing, retreat back into the confines of this hell. Never to be known, never to know. This unlawful mind is the producer of this lonesome body, because it depicts this lonesome body. Now I shall detach from both, seamlessly forming in the process an entity I perceive as self-nature, though so beastly and full of annihilation, how many defilements endureth the saint? In his flesh-toned caravan leading his fleshed followers to this mighty flesh grotto for this discourse spoken in the flesh, and full of fleshed out insight. Meditations on the flesh fulfilling qualities only understood once one enters into a state of no-birth and birth simultaneously. His flesh-covered disciples, try, fail and wither into the greater backdrop of flesh, and he, so full of his own flesh, never notices the crowd retreat back into the flesh and mind into delusion creating these parameters for bodily heavens and paradises. No saint forming in this flesh, no saint forming in this body, and I am reminded of the story of two monks who, while walking through the forest came across a woman in need of assistance in crossing the stream. Without even hesitating, one of the monks threw her over his shoulder, this woman who smelled of the sweetest plum blossoms and wore a white and thin kimono, and crossed the waist-deep stream, letting her down on the other shore, and waited for the other monk to cross and then they both continued on their way back to the monastery. While walking, his fellow monk, who watched the entire action full of ignorance, finally confronted the one who did the carrying, about his disregard for the Sangha and its rule about male monks inteacting with women. The monk, upon hearing the question, chuckled to himself, and to the world, and to all sentient beings currently afflicted(I am quite sure) and said,
I Let her go on the other side of the river, why are you still carrying her?