|Song: To My Inconstant Mistress
When thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crown’d.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then: for thou shalt be
Damn’d for thy false apostasy.
Dark corsage I can’t
unpin, I’m stuck with it,
drawing wry comment
for days, however I hide
this stamp that approves
the boundary, proves that you
stop short of blood, all jokes
aside. But note
how readily my veins
leap up: a little harder and
the whole heart would follow,
I’d turn inside out, bleak pocket
for your rummaging,
magician’s hat. And yet
I don’t; I let you pass
like this small stormcloud on
my white, impassive throat.
They can be things to meditate upon- words and ideas to ponder, to find meaning in, to find kinship, to gain understanding. Like good artwork they stimulate thought and it is sometimes comforting to be reminded that many others have trod a similar path.
These two poems were the most immediate- a tale of loss and betrayal and an ode to the delights of bruising. I know the bruises mentioned were created via mouth and not touch but I just love the way the badges of affection are perfectly described…
I was most disappointed to find that aside from a couple of splinter-thin rosy lines, I am completely unblemished from my weekend. I was hoping I would have some nice marks on my wrists too- yeah yeah, from trying to beat up MW#1, nothing else. You pervs.
Oooh. UFC underwear… genius. All they need now is the shampoo and duvet cover and their marketing juggernaut will be all-conquering.