Blunt Force Trauma. Or The Language of Love.

 

"Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields."

 ~~ Christopher Marlowe, "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" (c. 1593)

"The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
  A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall."

 ~~ Sir Walter Raleigh, "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" (c. 1596)

(Love -

Don't touch my face with a tender finger,

Don't sink your lips in my fragrant hair;

Don't let your sigh on my skin linger,

Don't brush your palm on my silken thigh!)

 

Kiss me like you hate me, Love!

Pour gall into my hungry mouth!

Rip my throat with teeth that carve

On my naked flesh raw passion's path!

 

May the conflagration of your desire

Be a golden shower on my eyes and lips!

Let Eros's jaws in boundless ire

Crush the bones in my supple limbs!

 

Yeah, that's how I like it, Love!

(Yes! Yes!) Who knows that better than you?

 By Heaven below and Hell above,

Make me scream my own face blue!

 

Come! Fuck my brains into a coma,

That's how it's been since you grew wise;

Your love is like a blunt force trauma,

It's auto erotic! Your grip, like a vise!

 

They say that Might gets  right to yank

The treasures I hold in land and sea;

My wrath is buried in caverns dank,

In the darkest trenches no eye can see!

 

My wrath burgeons in my womb,

Look long and hard for the tell-tale signs;

Beware the beast in the maze of doom!

The blood red thread that defines

 

Your only lifeline will snap in a trice!

And engulfed within the ensuing broil,

Your progeny will pay the price

Of your ruthless, senseless, fruitless toil!

 

(So -

Don't touch my face with gentle kisses,

Don't press your heart upon my breast;

Don't thrill my skin with sweet caresses,

Don't ride so high on passion's crest!)