Loins, Concluded.
Well, I was in favor of leaving it, but I recognize now that in the long run it is probably best to go in favor of implied loins, and revise to substitute a less problematic word.
As moriarty6 so deftly pointed out, loins should probably be hinted at. Left hovering on the periphery, as it were. Not jutting obscenely from the page like the spring-loaded snake in the Pop-Up Book of Phobias.
Reading your opinions of what does not belong in a love letter was the most fun I have had all week. For the record, I can't post the original note, but I offer as substitution a humble poem compiled from all of your suggestions. I tried not to miss anything.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . .
Hortus Conclusus
Your hole beckons
From within your brobdignagian panties.
I stroke the tender gusset, probe with clammy fingers
As I root through your chubby nethers, that hirsute crevice
Slavering its discharge like nectar.
My lovemuscle swells like a bubo, a ripe pustule,
My heart spins in circles like a cockroach, arrested in its coprophagia,
Now drowning in urea.
You do not chortle at my peestick.
I grope your heaving bosoms,
Your titmeats, white as mother's laundry,
I nuzzle supersized ta-tas,
Drool on comforting mammoth cow-jugs.
I nose your comb,
Your crack;
The trembling epithelium that bestrides my fingers, moist,
Squamous and rugose, the embrace of an enflamed cephalopod.
I'm shitfaced on your ambrosial liquor,
On the siren call of your oceanic, tunafish cunt.
I poke your passion button, your love nub,
I adore your briny thorax.
Now I mount up, my tallywhacker poised to butter your love muffin.
I sheathe my pulsating meat sword in your quivering flesh scabbard.
I am embrangled in your sodden womb,
Clinging love-tunnel like gasoline-soaked velvet.
Our bodies conflate with the fricative tintinnabulation of a flatulent lawnmower,
The occasional tender queef like the tweet of a lark.
We chafe against one another like bunions,
Squash my hairy tumescence against your gorilla salad.
Fo' shizzle my nizzle, we can't control
Our effulgent groins,
Your cootchie and my throbbing manhood;
I want to cover you with jism,
Earlobes to toenails.
You want to swallow me with your secret cavern,
Suck me up between your child-bearing hips
To nestle against your throbbing spleen.
I love your cunt, I love your arsehole, oh, please suck my cock!
You handle my testicles
Like there were prize jewels in my scrotum,
And you were a thief planning a heist.
My penis swirls with splooge like a percolator.
Your peritonsilar cavern fits the girth of my turgid love pump like a thimble,
Your throat pulses grimly as you imbibe my white love-snot.
It slides in gravy globs to your radiant duodenum
Where your gastric juices will alchemically render it inert.
I accolade your intestinal fortitude.
With your vag you parole me from the banal misery
Of autoerotic asphyxiation.
You offer poonany therapy to my hodgepodge of other personalities,
Nine out of ten of whom would hump you.
Your love for me is serious as invasive surgery,
When you touch me? PRESTO!
My heart dribbles blood for you like a wounded spadger in flight,
A reddish discharge, newly diagnosed, the disease of love,
Like lusty Tutsi genocide to the Hutus of reason.
You, my venous and bonerific ramollissement hémorragique.
My choad is inflamed, my crotch engorged, my loins are alight for you,
As though positive for syphilis.
In loving you, I BECOME you, your fleshpuppet, your adoring mangina.
My corpulent smoochyface, my little rhubarb fart,
If I had nothing to give you but leprosy,
I'd leave part of myself with you every time we fornicate.
The relatives kvetch at us like a worrisome rash with words thudding and moribund,
Trying to suck the mickey from our whoopee,
Trying to jaundice our love with their inquisition.
They malinger like stubborn butt-nuggets, like an inflamed and throbbing hemorrhoid,
They are upsetting, like an unidentifiable chunk at the bottom of a large jar of Vegemite.
Disbelievers who know not the glory of your livid cooter,
Nor the ecstasy to be found within.
They say it is bestiality, but my throbbing staff of manliness denies them;
Not for a rancid animal is my man-juice.
In their gormless hate they would forbid us our threesome,
You, me, and an understanding Jesus;
Dubya would raise a stink like pustules, or a Pauly Shore movie.
Let every Dweezil and Ahmed fondle their boner and think of you,
Let them pick the scabs of their discontent, for it is I who posess you
With my love pole.
Let them feel the shit-stab of resentment,
Pain like acid burning away genital warts,
For we will always dance to Zappa
And be happy in one another.
We will forget them as though we have Alzheimer's,
Enjoy our contractual disease,
Though it might be best for all concerned
If we moved to a country with no extradition.
<3
Now that, THAT is bad. If you made it all the way through, I am proud.
As moriarty6 so deftly pointed out, loins should probably be hinted at. Left hovering on the periphery, as it were. Not jutting obscenely from the page like the spring-loaded snake in the Pop-Up Book of Phobias.
Reading your opinions of what does not belong in a love letter was the most fun I have had all week. For the record, I can't post the original note, but I offer as substitution a humble poem compiled from all of your suggestions. I tried not to miss anything.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . .
Hortus Conclusus
Your hole beckons
From within your brobdignagian panties.
I stroke the tender gusset, probe with clammy fingers
As I root through your chubby nethers, that hirsute crevice
Slavering its discharge like nectar.
My lovemuscle swells like a bubo, a ripe pustule,
My heart spins in circles like a cockroach, arrested in its coprophagia,
Now drowning in urea.
You do not chortle at my peestick.
I grope your heaving bosoms,
Your titmeats, white as mother's laundry,
I nuzzle supersized ta-tas,
Drool on comforting mammoth cow-jugs.
I nose your comb,
Your crack;
The trembling epithelium that bestrides my fingers, moist,
Squamous and rugose, the embrace of an enflamed cephalopod.
I'm shitfaced on your ambrosial liquor,
On the siren call of your oceanic, tunafish cunt.
I poke your passion button, your love nub,
I adore your briny thorax.
Now I mount up, my tallywhacker poised to butter your love muffin.
I sheathe my pulsating meat sword in your quivering flesh scabbard.
I am embrangled in your sodden womb,
Clinging love-tunnel like gasoline-soaked velvet.
Our bodies conflate with the fricative tintinnabulation of a flatulent lawnmower,
The occasional tender queef like the tweet of a lark.
We chafe against one another like bunions,
Squash my hairy tumescence against your gorilla salad.
Fo' shizzle my nizzle, we can't control
Our effulgent groins,
Your cootchie and my throbbing manhood;
I want to cover you with jism,
Earlobes to toenails.
You want to swallow me with your secret cavern,
Suck me up between your child-bearing hips
To nestle against your throbbing spleen.
I love your cunt, I love your arsehole, oh, please suck my cock!
You handle my testicles
Like there were prize jewels in my scrotum,
And you were a thief planning a heist.
My penis swirls with splooge like a percolator.
Your peritonsilar cavern fits the girth of my turgid love pump like a thimble,
Your throat pulses grimly as you imbibe my white love-snot.
It slides in gravy globs to your radiant duodenum
Where your gastric juices will alchemically render it inert.
I accolade your intestinal fortitude.
With your vag you parole me from the banal misery
Of autoerotic asphyxiation.
You offer poonany therapy to my hodgepodge of other personalities,
Nine out of ten of whom would hump you.
Your love for me is serious as invasive surgery,
When you touch me? PRESTO!
My heart dribbles blood for you like a wounded spadger in flight,
A reddish discharge, newly diagnosed, the disease of love,
Like lusty Tutsi genocide to the Hutus of reason.
You, my venous and bonerific ramollissement hémorragique.
My choad is inflamed, my crotch engorged, my loins are alight for you,
As though positive for syphilis.
In loving you, I BECOME you, your fleshpuppet, your adoring mangina.
My corpulent smoochyface, my little rhubarb fart,
If I had nothing to give you but leprosy,
I'd leave part of myself with you every time we fornicate.
The relatives kvetch at us like a worrisome rash with words thudding and moribund,
Trying to suck the mickey from our whoopee,
Trying to jaundice our love with their inquisition.
They malinger like stubborn butt-nuggets, like an inflamed and throbbing hemorrhoid,
They are upsetting, like an unidentifiable chunk at the bottom of a large jar of Vegemite.
Disbelievers who know not the glory of your livid cooter,
Nor the ecstasy to be found within.
They say it is bestiality, but my throbbing staff of manliness denies them;
Not for a rancid animal is my man-juice.
In their gormless hate they would forbid us our threesome,
You, me, and an understanding Jesus;
Dubya would raise a stink like pustules, or a Pauly Shore movie.
Let every Dweezil and Ahmed fondle their boner and think of you,
Let them pick the scabs of their discontent, for it is I who posess you
With my love pole.
Let them feel the shit-stab of resentment,
Pain like acid burning away genital warts,
For we will always dance to Zappa
And be happy in one another.
We will forget them as though we have Alzheimer's,
Enjoy our contractual disease,
Though it might be best for all concerned
If we moved to a country with no extradition.
<3
Now that, THAT is bad. If you made it all the way through, I am proud.