I gotta heave you upwards
I gotta bring you some words
I gotta love you like a maid
I gotta drown your body
I gotta know your shadow
I gotta tell you where I end
I gotta bring you money
I gotta bring you mud
I gotta wake until you’re dead
I gotta love my army
I gotta choose my hell
I gotta drown into the same
I gotta love whats wrong now
I gotta turn what I know
And where my affects may remain
I gotta bring you lovers
I gotta heave you upwards
I gotta more
More than you ever mentioned
More than you ever mentioned
More than you ever mentioned
Oh
I gotta love your body
I gotta love your brain
I gotta tell you what I’m told
I gotta heave you upwards
I gotta leave you towards another man
Just like I’m sold.
Influences
Terrible, terrible, and utterly intolerable, are the practices of the young men in our city - here, where there are, after all, very good-looking young things in the whore-house, whom one can readily see basking in the sun, their breasts uncovered, stripped for action and drawn up in battle-formations by columns, from among whom one can select whatever sort one likes - thin, fat, squat, tall, shrivelled, young, old, middle-aged, fully-ripened, whitout setting up a ladder and stealthily entering another man’s house to seduce his women, or slipping through the smoke-hole in the roof, or getting oneself carried inside by trickery in a heap of chaff. For the girls themselves grab people and drag them in, naming those who are old men "little father", those who are younger, "little bro". And each of them can be had without fear, affordably, by day, towards evening, in every way you like.
[when lover and beloved are together, a flood of passion] pours in upon the lover; and part of it is absorbed within him, but when he can contain no more the rest flows away outside him; and as a breath of wind or an echo, rebounding from a smooth hard surface, goes back to its place of origin, even so the stream of beauty turns back and re-enters the eyes of the fair beloved; and so by the natural channel it reaches his soul and gives it fresh vigour, watering the roots of the wings and quickening them to growth: whereby the soul of the beloved, in its turn, is filled with love. So he loves, yet not knows what he loves: he does not understand, he cannot tell what has come upon him: like one that has caught a disease of the eye from another, he cannot account for it, not realising that his lover is as it were a mirror in which he beholds himself. And when the other is beside him, he shares being longed for; since he possesses that counter-love which is the image of love, though he supposes it to be friendship rather than love, and calls it by that name. He feels a desire, like the lover’s yet not so strong, to behold, to touch, to kiss him, to share his couch: and now ere long the desire, as one might guess, leads to the act.
