I could undress you and pluck
From your body, as leaves
From a branch- and thunderstruck-
Behold your breast as it heaves
Your bare white shoulder receives
A breath, such a breath
Yours to possess until death.
I have, but will not
For today you have dressed
In that way you were taught
Renders me wanton, impressed,
Elegant woman, I am obsessed
Losing my breath, such a breath
Yours to possess until death.
Stand and marvel at the webs spun by the harvestman!
Such were the intricate injuries upon Victorian society
Masterminded by the willful, dreadful Wilde;
Long, fragile, white-silk strands of sexual impiety
Lilies, blue china, decadently styled,
Sordid letters of love and artful impropriety
From the gilded pen of man by whom all were beguiled.
Vile are the hands of he
who builds naught with them, he
breaks only the precious wooden box
of a woman’s trust, with a single strike.
So putrid is the heart of he
who would turn away his child, he
retches at the homosexual,
his own sick flesh.
The flaccid muscle of he
who fails the promises he
sees no profit or pleasure in,
this still is a man.
A man like many men,
There are scores of such men,
Murderous, false and mercenary,
still whole men.
I am seething, each sunrise
I wake, half-a-man, each sunrise
Though I give, nurture, build,
My word is good, but I am half-a-man.
What nature gave whole to them
Is withheld from me, what flesh to them
is the focal point of man
I am told I do not strictly need.
prince nothing 