The Imperfect Enjoyment

I found the following poem in the compilation i'm reading...and i loved it..so i thought i'd put it up 'cos i'm pretty sure most of my friends have'nt come across this kind of stuff considering most of the poetry they read was in school!!! ...and yet..it is definitely worth reading...

If however, you have'nt read too much poetry and don't enjoy it much...then nows the time to navigate away.
This poem is long but definitely not difficult to read..and it is really , to say the least , priceless!!! Tt actually manages to be BAWDY and LEWD and at the same time quite EROTIC , but somehow the poem left me feeling quite amused at the end of it and a little pity for the guy. well read it...you'll see what i mean.. .

well anyway here goes:

The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.

And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

Lord John Wilmot , Earl Of Rochester.

p.s: this poem was written in the 1600's . did'nt realise the words Cunt, Fuck etc. existed then!! lol...trivia for the interested! also if you like this.. u should try reading some of his other poetry...quite as bawdy,just as amusing and not as long! although sometimes perhaps a little too much !!

here's a description of the poet that i found somewhere on the net:

John Wilmot,

the second Earl of Rochester,(1647-1680)

"Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,
May drink and love still reign,
With wine I wash away my cares,
And then to cunt again."

-- a lyric poet, satirist, and a leading member of the group of "court wits" surrounding Charles II. A libertine, he lived out a promiscuous lifestyle reflected in his writing style and subject matter. He wrote scurrilous lampoons, translations of classical authors, and several autobiographical poems. A predecessor to the Marquis De Sade, he wrote more frankly about sex than anyone in English before the 20th Century.

Interesting! to say the least!