Most Foul, She Was

7 Jan

Property of The DarkRose Journal, 2012
Copyright 2012, By DarkRose

I decided to give everyone a much deserved break from my relentless philosophical, inspirational, and erotica (really, does anyone want a break from erotica?) prose.


Victorian Foul Erotica

Most Foul, She Was

Either she was foul, or her garb was bad,
Or she was not the lass I wished T’have had.
Idly I lay with her, as if i loved not,
and like a burden, grieved the bed that moved not.
Yet though both of us performed our true intent,
Yet could I not cast anchor where I meant.
She on my neck her ivory arms did throw,
Her arms far whiter than the Scythian snow.
And desirously she kissed me with her tongue,
And under mine her wanton thigh she flung.
Yea, and she soothed me up and called me sire,
And used all speech that might provoke and stir my desires.
Yet, like as if cold hemlock I had drunk,
It mocked me, hung down the head, and sunk.
Like a dull cipher or rude block I lay,
Or shadow or body was I, who can say?
What will my age do, age I cannot shun,
When in my prime my force is spent and done?
I blush that being youthful,
hot and lusty,
I prove neither youth, nor man, but old and rusty.

Pure rose she, like a nun to sacrifice,
Or one that with her tender brother lies.
Yet boarded I the golden chi twice,
And libas, and the white-cheeked pith thrice.
She craved it in a summer’s night,
And nine sweet bouts we had before daylight.

What, waste my limbs through some voodoo charms?
May spells and drugs do silly souls such harms?
With virgin wax hath some imbaste my joints,
And pierced my liver with sharp needles’ points?
By charms mast crops from oaks, from vines grapes fall,
And fruit from trees when there’s no wind at all.
Why might not then my sinews be enchanted,
And I grow faint, as with some spirit haunted?
To this add shame: shame to perform it quailed me
And was the second cause why vigour failed me.
My idle thoughts delighted her no more
Than did the robe or garment which she wore.

Yet, might her touch make youthful my fire
And me livelier than my years require.
Even her I had, and she had me in vain;
What might I crave more if I asked again?
To kiss. I kiss. To lie with her, she let me.
Why was I blessed? Why made Majesty to refuse it?
Chuff-like had I not gold and could not use it?
So in a spring thrives he that told so much,
And looks upon the fruits he cannot touch.
Hath any rose so from a fresh young maid,
As she might straight have gone to church and prayed?
Well I believe she kissed not as she should,
Nor used the sleight and cunning which she could.
Huge oaks, hard adamants might she had moved,
And with sweet words cause deaf rocks to have loved.
Worthy she was to move both gods and men,
But neither was I man, nor lived then.
Can deaf ear take delight when she sings?
What sweet thought is there but I had the same?
And one gave still an another came.
Yet, nonwithstanding, like one dead it lay,
Drooping more than a rose pulled yesterday.

Nay more, the lass did not disdain a whit
To take it in her hand and play with it.
But when she saw it would by no means stand,
But still drooped down, regarding not her hand,
‘Why mockst thou me?’ she cried. ‘Or, being ill,
Who bade thee lie down here against thy will?
Either thou art witch, with blood of frogs new dead,
Or jaded camest thou from some other bed.’

With that, her loose gown on, from me she cast her-
In skipping out her naked feet much graced her.
And, lest her maid should know of this disgrace,
To cover it, Spilt lye and water on the place.



One Response to “Most Foul, She Was”

  1. johncoyote January 7, 2013 at 11:56 pm #

    Photo and description was amazing. Thank you.


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