(content warning) Transcendence and Urges

[Leanne]

All right, let's look at why I find this gratuitous.

Her body's God to me.
Springing from an ancient well of joy, -- already she's set up as a "body" -- she is unimportant -- and that body is needed to fulfill expectations of perfection. Putting a woman on a pedestal is in no way respect, it's forcing her compliance with a man's ideals

it yields to my fists. -- this doesn't sound consensual to me
I knead its hills and valleys

like a giant crawling through Yorkshire.
Which god would deny man its beauties? -- what right has she to stop me? I worship her, therefore I own her.

(The same god who created
and filled it with hate for man and his urges.)

She's dead tonight,
lost in an artificial sleep no-one could approach. -- no, it's definitely not consensual, she's drugged into unconsciousness

Lecherous physician, -- and clearly, it was the husband who drugged her
childish necrophile,

I touch and lick, breathing hastily,
an African boy at a trough of meat. -- not only are women fair game for condescension and generalisation, but so are other races

She'll wake tomorrow and read scripture
while torturing herself, -- of course she'll torture herself -- it's what she's been taught she deserves

unaware that I've broken our pact.
Picture her stuck to the cross,

nails where nipples should be,
poking through her tits in halos of blood.

Her cunt is a tangle of thorns
no husband could touch or child escape.

And on her face are the orgasms she's denied man, -- because of course, the man's orgasms are the ones that matter
as rivers of heavenly light pour from her eyes.

No matter how many pretty metaphors you hang around it, and whether it's in a marriage bed or not, rape is rape. It's not something I want to be a voyeur to.