A life lived in metaphor is not lived

A life lived in metaphor is not lived at all.
A love told in metaphor is mere cleverness
And playing with words.
Who needs to know that I can use words?
What good is all this verbal dexterity?
It tells us nothing, except that I reckon myself!
A life lived in metaphor is one great euphemism,
And what is a euphemism but a cowardly lie?
What is it but an excuse for saying nothing?
A life lived in metaphor is not lived at all.

But a life lived boldly, and with plain speaking,
That’s another thing, a glorious thing!
Real! Vital! To say simply “I love you”,
And mean it with all my being,
That says something about me I can’t reckon!
Away with nature and seascapes, stars and fire!
Away with riding the lightning!
Let me say instead that you are precious,
That I long for us to stand or lie,
Two pairs of breasts making gorgeous friction,
Nipple rubbing against nipple.
This is no dance, no play, no make-believe,
No ritual sacrifice. This is love and sex
In all their beautiful plainness and pride.
So when I say I love your face, your mouth,
Then that is that – I love them, the truth!
No more evasion – I love your legs
Spread wide apart, the anticipation on your face,
Your beautiful cunt, its soft lips opening,
Taking my tongue and fingers as mine takes yours.
The gentle building up of tension and energy
Over long minutes, pleasure, crying out,
And then the coming – once or many times –
What thunder? What waves? What music?
What bloody, bloody, damnable metaphor
Can possibly do better than straight telling?

You sex me up. I love you – there!
That’s no metaphor, and it’s glorious!
All the better for straight telling
Is the fact that I love you –
It’s a twenty-four-hour love, honest,
Day-long, life-long, not imaginary.
Keep your metaphors – I intend to live!