A Scorned Lover's Elegy to Desire
I will love you, when love outlasts the grave;
I will mourn you, when tears drown all I have;
I will curse you, now that you're dead at last:
I will hate you, now that you're just the past!
In spite of Cupid, I won't bring you flowers;
or like Eros, I won't bathe you in showers
of purple; or grant you the gold of chaise,
fit for your hightow'ring thrones of black maize.
Instead, I'll bring you a wreathe of barbed wires;
flame it! with a thousand nuclear pyres;
hang it upon your cold member, like so!
Then watch it cauterize, and burn, it slow.
Inept Desire! You stole beyond measure,
from me (dear God!) the gift of love's pleasure.
So be it! For I've the glee and delight,
of your digit no more standing upright.
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