Jack Barleycorn
December 22, 2005
In your laden Orchard, do you
know how much your large, succulent Apple entices me to kiss and to
caress it repeatedly, and then to pluck your ripened Fruit? Let me
spread your heavy Boughs, there to fondle your Hidden Glory with my
lips, satisfying my fevered palate and fulfilling your desire to be
husbanded.
I possess a singular heated
Spear which mercilessly skewers Pommes, Pomegranates and Peaches damp
with warm, sweet pectin. This unrivalled Lance, once penetrating your
Yield, releases an ardent emission of its own, filling with a
passionate wonder that which is harvested of you.
Alas, though, I beg that you tempt me for an eternity after I
steal into your Copse, for this is my desire. Lick my javelin with
your moist Leaves which dart about like the tongue of an adder. And
when you have teased me so that I can barely breathe, shift your
Branches in such a way that I cannot easily reach to stroke that
which drips there for my desirous touch and tongue. For this
playfulness I will become fierce with zeal, and drive myself forth,
hungry for that which hangs over my mouth. Frustrate me; cause me to
cry out. When you have me writhing about your supple Trunk in dulcet
agony, only then allow my wounding of your maddening cloven Root as
we revel in our heavenly death.
As we
then ride the exotic ambience of your bounteous Private Grounds, with
balmy earthen magic will you bend and make malleable my vibrant
Weapon that has grown to love you, but not without feeding me richly
on your Abundance. In return for your precious Gifts shall I succour
you, wassail you, bless you and then nourish you over and again with
my Secret Milch.
Dear Jack Barleycorn,
Normally I don't like the use of archaic words and phrases in creative writing, but your little composition is different. It's very unique, and if I liked it as a man I can imagine women will enjoy it even more.
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