Cursed Be Your Breast

I despise your seasons your charming pulses with a primitive ego
With a primitive ego
I crave to bite your revered face
I crave to stab your dreaded breast
Hostile, beloved, prostitute, scourge among your begging sons
Nothing can be understood
«Make thick my blood
Stop up the access and passage to remorse
That no compunctious visiting of nature shake my fell purpose
Nor keep peace between the effect and it
Come to my woman’s breasts and take milk for gall
Your murdering ministers
Wherever, in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief
Come, thick night, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of Hell
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes
Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark to cry
Hold, hold!»