Through the kisses that blossom and bud,
By the lips intertwisted and bitten
Till the foam has a savour of blood,
By the pulse as it rises and falters,
By the hands as they slacken and strain,
I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,
Our Lady of Pain.
Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining
The light fire in the veins of a boy?
But he comes to thee sad, without feigning,
Who has wearied of sorrow and joy;
Less careful of labour and glory
Than the elders whose hair has uncurled:
And young, but with fancies as hoary
And grey as the world.
poem/174550
(Swinburne aparente mente gustaba de ser golpeado por mujeres -según enuncia Freud en Ein Kind wird geschlagen (1919): un modo de ubicarse pasivamente pero defendiéndose de la homosexualidad
Punish me/Verfolgt el Lobo colonial el Cordero teatral)
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