The Death of Romanticism

A bilious screed against love and romance: we don’t call it the death of romance for nothing. It’s strange, “romance”, y’know? Roman see ee, ss, Roman ticism, what’s the deal? When did our conception of Roman became one of love? When the Roman gladiator burst forth from the melee, the blistered sweaty mélange of muscle and flesh, tore through, burst forth, victorious, sword in hand, to stand face to face, breath to breath, in the mouth of a lion. Our gladiator by leaps and bounds soars through the thick Mediterranean air, thick from despicable debased human beings, thick from the humidity that emanates in post-quantum waves from our sea into the sun-bleached spectators and prisoners of the Roman coliseum, to bring the dirtied, bloodied, and terrible blade down across the brow of this starving, kidnapped, king of the animal kingdom; to sever flesh from muscle, muscle from bone, life from limb, and to stand there, breathing heavily, as the whole crowd lets forth an uproarious orgasm of heinousness, incarnate. For surely, this is what is meant by Roman love, this is what is meant by Latin love, this is what is meant by Mediterranean love. In which case, mosdef, one could see the death of romance, it deserved to die, just like the blood-soaked pelt before our gladiator, curing in the hot midday sun.