Want of Penelope

I think with my atlatl, My love; for I see thee Within my psychic attic, My love; for my heart Has become an abstraction— A Shakespearean metaphor— I am infatuated, my love: I feel so delicate, my love. My wanton for thee is more Flamboyant than Baroque— As sacred as scripture. Become Gothic, my love—displace of Us within the twelfth century, when Maidens knew romance—when Ever a maiden secretly yearned For Adonis; for the times Were masculine, thus, Femininity was suppressed; Wherefore, women were forced To disguise womanhood; but Evermore yearned the sensuous Embrace. Take of me, Penelope: Weave no more; for only so Long can weaving distract Pulsations of the womb: O’ How I yearn to thrust within Thy womb. This feeling is Familiar to me. I am Deathly drawn to surrealistic Women. Penelope! Thou Art surreal for me. Hence, I Want thee more—more than The want of Job for Death. I must have thee, Penelope. I must drum within thy womb. I must—lest I perish. Glenn Jr. Marchand