Why do we hesitate to call Babalon a Goddess of Love? Love has been bled almost to death, drained to an insipid pink when it should be a shameless scarlet. The commercialized face of Love is the very opposite of Lust, a weak, warm fuzz of nebulous good feeling. The arrows of Eros are no longer barbed, but smothered in sentiment. The hounds of Love are muzzled. It is a product without passion, a stupefying cocoon.