Time-worn Porn

I gave myself to him, And took himself for pay. The solemn contract of a life Was ratified this way The value might disappoint, Myself a poorer prove Than this my purchaser suspect, The daily own of Love Depreciates the sight; But, 'til the merchant buy, Still fabled, in the isles of spice The subtle cargoes lie. At least, 'tis mutual risk, Some found it mutual gain; Sweet debt of Life, each night to owe, Insolvent, every noon.

No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed; Lay that on your heart, My young angry dear; This truth, this hard and precious stone, Lay it on your hot cheek, Let it hide your tear. Hold it like a crystal When you are alone And gaze in the depths of the icy stone. Long, look long and you will be blessed: No one worth possessing Can be quite possessed.

I dreamed this mortal part of mine Was metamorphosed to a vine, Which crawling one and every way Enthralled my dainty Lucia. Methought her long small legs and thighs I with my tendrils did surprise; Her belly, buttocks, and her waist By my soft nervelets were embraced. About her head I writhing hung, And with rich clusters (hid among The leaves) her temples I behung, So that my Lucia seemed to me Young Bacchus ravished by his tree. My curls about her neck did crawl, And arms and hands they did enthrall, So that she could not freely stir (All parts there made one prisoner). But when I crept with leaves to hide Those parts which maids keep unespied, Such fleeting pleasures there I took That with the fancy I awoke; And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine More like a stock than like a vine. Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast Have you beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam, A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl, and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.

I will sodomize you and face-fuck you, pussy Aurelius and catamite Furius, you who think, because my poems are sensitive, that I have no shame. For it's proper for a devoted poet to be moral himself, [but] in no way is it necessary for his poems. In point of fact, these have wit and charm if they are sensitive and a little shameless, and can arouse an itch, and I don't mean in boys, but in those hairy old men who can't get it up Because you've read my countless kisses, you think less of me as a man? I will sodomize you and face-fuck you