All language subtitles for Take Me Naked_better ok

Mysteries of an unknown time.

Within the three walls, where men did
not penetrate, we were born.

Astarte, mother of the world,
fountainhead of all the gods.

I will reveal it, but not that which I
may not.

Circling the phallic shrine, 120 women
run crying as they know not what.

The novices in the clothes of men, The
rest in tunics already rent in two.

Fumes of fragrant essences, fumes of
blazing torches floated over us.

Naked, I cried burning tears.

Every one of us at the feet of Berber
were bent on our backs.

And finally, when the act, religious,
was consummated, and after we had

plunged the colored phallus into the
eternal triangle, then the mystery

began.

But I will speak of it no longer

Wherever rain falls throughout the
world, the land turns green with

vegetation, and rivers sparkle with
clean transparency, reflecting

the skies.

But in every large city of the world,
there lies a devastated corner where the

rain falls on the people, and they
become grayer.

In New York, the largest city, the
corner becomes a mile-long street

of devastated humans.

The wandering souls who live here desire
nothing but the waters of

forgetfulness so that they can proceed
unthinking to the

grave.

In the rain, a man not quite an empty
shell, the rain still

bothers him a bit.

The thought of the approaching winter's
cold still worries him.

The loneliness of this self-isolation
still empties him,

and he feels an occasional desire for
another human being

to share a... part of his perverted
life.

Hunger to him is nothing but the hunger
for others

still remains.

The world is made of man-made trash.

He seeks his own existence in the
discards of others,

rarely finding anything.

Someone passed and lost his soul.

It oozes in the gutter.

Nothing is trite, for nothing is finally
nothing.

Another derelict.

His mind festers with things unresolved.

On the spinning world he sits and sees
an emptiness go round.

round he is surrounded by his books and
very little

else seeps past the alcoholic filter a
filter of

truth he says a filter of escape
forgetfulness another way

forget the failure the dead the living
smiles and touching

glances forget to touch it all

Just read and look and look and fear and
hate and sicken and sicken

until the beautiful becomes ugly and the
ugly unspeakable.

There they are, outside his window.

Normal or not, there they are.

And every night he sees a girl, a girl
who enters her own dim cell.

and all he sees is a solitary glimpse of
her in her window. This girl who has no

lover, who has no friends, she is he
after all, and is alone,

alone to do whatever she wants, and he
imagines it

in all its ugliness.

She has no lover, and she says no man
shall ever have her.

Her skin is made of man's
disillusionment.

Her heart beats down my desires.

A body without heat.

A life without breath.

In my soul's eye, I see her axe.

She too is drunk, encircled by an
alcohol of lust.

I am drunk on wine.

On virtue.

On poetry.

I am drunk on anything.

real matters.

Thoughts fly, and she is mine.

I grow warm as she rides.

A thing ecstatic in and of itself.

A thing possessed of narcissistic
inwinding keen intensity.

Looking inward to the void.

Pleasure finding nothing.

Feeling something.

Knowing nothing.

Twisting into discontent.

I am still in pain.

What can she wash away?

The grime and dirt of centuries.

Woman personifies my torments.

She cannot erase the pain that flesh has
caused me.

She is a living tomb of flesh.

In her, nothing will grow.

For she is dead.

place lilacs in her hair and they will
wither in the dank perfume of her skin.

Abomination.

The curse of all men.

Vicious harbinger of sorrow.

All your torments remain.

feels nothing.

Only dreams remain to bridge the chasm
of mountainous ruin.

A liquor, sweeter than any alcohol,
pervades my subconscious.

And I sleep, dreaming of mystic veils
and cushions covering and uncovering the

glorious female flesh.

In my sleep, in my dreams, my dreams,

dreams of poetry.

I rise and seek the Father, Son of
eternal love.

In poetry.

The love of a woman is the most
beautiful love that mortals can feel.

And you would think this true, Cleon.

If you possessed a truly voluptuous
spirit, but you think only of yourself.

You wasted your nights loving the men
who belittle us.

Look at them now.

They are ugly.

Compare their heads clipped oval with
our boundless heads of hair.

Do you see our white breasts on their
chest?

Alongside their narrow flanks, consider
our luxurious haunches, a bed deep

and hollow for a lover.

And tell me, do they even wish to have
lips supremely voluptuous as ours?

You are sick, Cleon, but you are a woman
who can still fight.

Go to the house of young Styro.

Her cleft is as pink sun, and she will
not refuse you the pleasure that she

herself delights in.

I threw myself into her arms, weeping,
and for a long time she felt my warm

tears flow on her shoulder.

until my sadness let me speak.

Ah, I am only a child.

The young men will not look at me.

But when will I, like you, have the
breasts of a young woman swelling my

dress and inviting kisses?

No eyes are interested if my tunic hangs
so straight against my body.

No one picks up a flower that falls from
my hair.

No one says it will kill him if my mouth
were given to another.

She replied tenderly, Billetus, dear
virgin, you wail like a cat at the moon

and upset yourself without any reason.

The most impatient girls are never
chosen first.

She has gone out.

She is far from me, but I see her.

for all things in the room all pertain
to her and I, like all the rest.

This bed still warm, over which I let my
lips wander, is disordered with the

imprint of her form.

Upon this soft cushion is lain her
little head, enveloped in its wealth of

hair.

This basin is that in which she hath
bathed.

This comb has penetrated the knots of
her tangled locks.

These slippers beg for her naked feet.

These pockets of gauze contained her
breast.

What I dare not touch is the mirror in
which she gazed upon her bruises, and

where perhaps remains still the
reflection of her moist lips.

Why should I paint my lips?

Why should I polish my nails?

Why should I perfume my hair?

Why redden my breast if they will never
entice her?

Why bathe my arms in milk if they will
never embrace her?

How will I sleep?

How will I lie in my bed?

This evening my hand does not find her
warm hand.

I do not dare anymore to return to my
house and into my empty dreadful room.

I do not dare now to reopen my door.

I no longer dare even to open my eyes.

I am beautiful now, a long time.

But the day will come when I will no
longer be a woman.

Then I will know torn memories, burning
solitary desires, and tears falling

on my hands.

If life is a long dream, what good to
resist it?

Now, four or five times in a night, I
demand the delights of a lover.

And when my flanks are satisfied, I go
to sleep wherever my body falls.

In the morning I open my eyelids and I
shiver in my hair.

There is a dove on my windowsill.

I ask her what month it is.

She says it is the month of women in
love.

And so this is the month the dove speaks
truth.

So I throw up my two arms around my
lover, and trembling wildly, I stretch

my still numb legs toward the foot of
the bed.

Believe not that I have ever loved thee.

I have eaten thee as I would have liked
sick.

I have drank thee as I would drink hot
water.

I have carried thee about me like a belt
of skin.

I have amused myself with thy body,
because thou hast short hair and breasts

upon thy chest, and nipples like two
little dates.

Just as one must have water and fruit, a
woman is also necessary.

But already I have forgotten thy name,
thou who is passed between my arms like

the shadow of another adored one.

Between thy flesh and mine a burning
dream has possessed me.

I pressed thee upon me as though upon a
wound, and I cried, Nasedika!

Nasedika!

Nasedika!

Fresh like flowers, oh my breath, how
rich you are in voluptuousness.

My breasts in my hands, what lack you of
softness, of mellow warmth, and of

youthful perfume.

Already you are polished like the breath
of a statue, and hard like the

insensible marble.

In order that you may submit, I will
cherish you the more, you that were

already loved.

Your sleek and rounder form is the honor
of my brown body.

Whether I imprison you under a necklace
of gold, or leave you free and naked,

You precede me with your splendor.

Be then happy this night.

My fingers toy with you in caresses.

You alone will know them until tomorrow
morning.

For this night, Biletus.

as paid billeters.

And I refused to say it. I said, no, no.

I turned my face away.

The kiss did not cross my lips.

And passion did not enter my cold legs.

And now I am alone.

I look at the deserted place.

I clench my fists until they bleed.

And I stifle my thoughts in the pillow.

Thou thinkest thou lovest me no more,
Talia, and since a month has passed by

nights at table, as if the fruits, the
wines, the honey could make thee forget

my lips.

Thou thinkest that thou lovest me no
more, poor fool.

Saying that, I untied my moist towel and
rolled about his head.

He was still all warm with the heat of
my body.

The perfume of my skin poured out of its
fine meshes.

He breathed with long breath.

His eyes closed.

Then I felt that he had returned to me.

And even so clearly, his desires
reawakened.

And he hit them not.

But as a ruse, I knew how to resist.

No, my friend.

This night, Lysispis possesses me.

Adding as I fled, Ogremond of fruits and
wine.

The little garden of Biletus has but one
sake, but it is good.

A hand reaches across the void and lifts
me bodily from the endless fields of

vibrant perfumes to bring me back to
him.

An angel from hell.

A twisted mental hunchback.

He hopes to lead me into his world of
sunless days and down beneath black,

slimy rivers.

I see his face.

The face of the ancient tribes.

The face I hate.

In the gutter lies dirt caked by
sewerage.

In the sewerage, his face is reflected.

Beneath decaying trash, he and his
bedfellows lie.

He is a friend after all.

His eyes, his face are vulgar, decayed
with modding desire.

But his bottle holds riches fragrant and
odorless.

Sweet and eternally better.

I shall drink.

Neither brain nor senses shall grow
soft.

My body's worth I have reserved for
Aphrodite's altar.

My body has been consecrated.

And this defilement must now be avenged.

Thy alabaster skin, the phallic mace
shall kill.

that threatens to separate us,
Aphrodite.

I comfortably again sleep to things real
and beautiful, to

things soft and flowing, to dreams of a
goddess's love.

Amphias, young girl of Lydia, has seven
veils upon her.

She loosens the first, and her black
hair spreads around her.

The second, she slides across her mouth.

The third reveals her naked arms.

She separates the fourth veil from her
breasts, and she is nude.

The fifth veil disappears.

The sixth is drawn across her shoulders.

But the last gossamer whispers.

She leaves breasts tightly in her.

saying where are my roses where are my
perfume violets

where are my tops of parsley here are my
roses

here are my perfume violets here are my
beautiful

Why am I become lesbian, O Biletus, thou
ask me?

But what player of the flute is not a
lesbian, in some degree?

I am poor, I have no bed, and I lie with
her who wishes me, and I

thank her with that which I have.

When we are small, we already dance
naked, and what dances, thou knowest, my

dear one.

The Twelve Desires of Aphrodite.

We look upon each other. We compare the
beauty of our nakedness.

And we find it beautiful.

During the long night, we are warmed by
the pleasure of the looker's arms.

But our ardor is not faint.

And so strongly do we feel it, that
sometimes behind the doors, one of

us may embrace a companion who can
sense.

How do we make love with a man who is
rude to us?

He takes us as he would take a woman and
leaves us before the orgasm.

Thou that art a woman and knowest what I
mean, thou canst take it as for

thyself.

My hair is black, the length of my back
and my buttocks small

and round.

My tunic is of white wool.

My browned hips enclose the sun.

If I were to live in the city, I would
have golden jewels and tunics of gold

and sandals of silver.

I look at my naked feet in their dusty
shoes.

Sophists, come to me, poor darling.

Draw me back to your source.

Wash my feet in your hands.

and press olive over violets, perfuming
them with the flowers.

I will perfume all my skin that I may
attract lovers.

Upon my beautiful legs in a basin of
silver, I will pour the

spikenard of Tarsos, the Metatopian of
Egypt.

Under my arms, crushed mint.

Upon my eyebrows and upon my eyes.

Marjolaine of Couz.

Slave, take down my hair and fill it
with the smoke of incense.

Behold the old math of the mountains of
Kypris.

I will let it run between my breasts.

The liquor of roses which comes from
faceless shall embalm my neck and my

cheeks. And come, pour out upon my loins
the irresistible

Baccarat.

It is better for a courtesan that she
should know the perfumes of Lydia than

the customs of Peloponnese.

Close softly thine arms around me like a
girdle.

Oh, touch, touch my skin thus.

Neither water nor the breath of the
south wind are softer than thy hand.

Today, dear me, little sister, it is thy
turn.

Remember thou the endearments that I
taught thee last night, and kneel thou

near me when fatigued.

Kneel thou in silence.

Thy lips descend upon my lips.

All thine undone hair follows them as a
caress follows a kiss.

Thy locks glide upon my left breast.

They hide thine eyes.

Give me thy hand.

It is hot.

Press mine and leave it me.

Hands better than lips unite.

And their passion is equal by nothing.

Now, untie the ribbons and the hooks of
your tunics.

Cast aside your sandals, the laces up
your legs, and the bindings from your

breasts.

Wash the black from your eyes and the
red from your lips.

Remove the powder from your shoulders.

and uncurl your hair into the water.

For I want you completely pure, naked as
when you were born,

at the feet of your fertile mother lying
before your virile father, so

chaste that my mere hand on yours will
bring color to your lips, and that a

single word from me whispered under your
ears.

will cause your upturned eyes to move.

Oh, if I think of her, my throat becomes
dry, my head swings,

my breasts harden, and I'm ill.

I tremble and cry.

If I see my heart stops, hands tremble,
feet freeze, hellfire climbs my

cheeks, pain beats in my temples.

I touch her, I am mad.

Arms stiff and knees weakened.

I faint in front of her and I lay myself
in bed as if I were about to die.

For everything she says to me, I am
blessed.

The love of her is torture.

And the passerbyers can hear my cry.

One woman may robe herself in a tunic of
white wool.

Another dress in a garment of silk and
gold.

Another covers herself with flowers,
with leaves and grapes.

As for me, I take no joy of life except
when naked.

My lover takes me just as I am, without
robes or jewels or sandals.

Behold me, Biletus, naked.

Alone.

My hair is black with its own blackness.

My lips are red with their own color.

My locks float about me free and round
like feathers.

Take me as my mother made me in a night
of love long past.

And if I please you thus, forget not to
tell me.

My wondering hand upon her tunic sought
to divine the naked body, which softly

bent like waves, or arching, stiffened
itself with shiverings of the skin.

With her eyes in delirium, she signs
toward the bed.

We have not the right to indulge our
love before the ceremony of a wedding.

Delicately, with one hand, she opened
her blouse.

Then held up to me her warm, sweet
breath, as one would offer to the gods a

pair of living turtledoves.

Love them well, she said to me.

I love them dearly.

They are my cherished ones, my tiny
darling.

I amuse myself with them when I'm alone.

I play with them.

And I get pleasure from them.

I splash them with milk.

I sprinkle them with flowers.

My delicate hair drawing them is kind to
their small tips.

I caress them in shivers.

I put them to bed in soft wool.

Since I shall never have children, you
must nourish them, my love.

And since they are so far from my own
mouth,

Give them kisses for me.

I would kiss the whole length of the
rich black locks that grace thy

neck like wings.

Oh, sweet bird.

Oh, captured dove whose passion-filled
heart beats under my hand.

I would take thy lips between mine own
as a babe takes the breast of its

mother.

when my kisses reach far and should
satisfy thy love lightly

will I touch thy breasts and arms with
my tongue and lips and behind

thine ears and upon thy cheek I will
leave the marks of my kisses and while I

kiss thee my hands shall stray in mad
delight over the ivory nakedness of thy

sensitive body trembling under

Listen, Masadika.

Hear the murmurings of my love in thine
ear, like the wild humming of the sea.

Masadika, thy looks drive me mad. I will
close thy burning eyes with a kiss.

I gasped, and seizing her hands, I
twisted them fiercely into the moist

skin beneath my left breast.

I rolled her head back and forth, and
her lips moved without speaking.

my excited heart, strong and violent,
beat and beat against my breast, like a

satyr caught in brambles, writhing.

She said to me, your heart will make you
ill.

Oh, Nausicaa, I replied, that is not a
heart of a girl. This is a poor bird, a

dove that waves his feeble wings.

The heart of a woman is more terrible,
like a patch of myrtle. It burns in

flames beneath the flowers for me.

It is there that I am sealed by
voracious Aphrodite.

Beneath the gossamer sheet of wool we
slept, she and I.

Our heads bent together as though we
were one, and the flame illuminated the

sheet beneath us.

And I saw her desirable body in
mysterious light.

We were as close as possible to one
another, most free, most intimate,

and most naked.

We had loosened our hair to be even more
unfettered.

And in the confinement of the bed, our
two female odors mingled.

Two natural perfumes.

No one in the world, not even the lamp,
saw us that night.

Which of us was loved?

She and I alone can tell.

And the men will never know.

Love me not with smiles or with lutes or
with plated flowers, but with thy

heart and with thy tears, even as I love
thee with my sorrowing breast and

my moles.

When thy breasts alternate with my
breasts, when I feel thy life touch my

life, when thy knees stand up behind me,
then my panting mouth knows not more how

to join itself to thine.

See, the lamp has died down, and the
darkness is upon us.

But I press thy moving body, and I hear
thy perpetual plaint.

As we are lying, our eyes closed, great
silence surrounds our

bed.

Unforgettable night of the summer.

She begins to speak.

Since you do not hear me, oh, how I love
you.

And she repeats my name.

Billet.

Billet.

And she touches my skin with the tips of
her trembling fingers.

This mouth is mine and mine alone.

Is there one more beautiful in the
world?

Oh, my dear one, my dear one.

These naked arms are mine.

This neck and this hair.

Patterns of reality have disappeared.

Thoughts of others are twisted, but his
soul is cooled by virgin snows.

He sees himself as a lover bearing
flowers to his love, the girl

he has watched so often through his
window.

But he has changed her in his mind.

He sees her smiling at himself, a gentle
man.

Now I come to you my love.

I come across the labyrinth of time.

I come to bring you flowers for your
hair.

I dream of Venus and of your vision.

And it becomes a reality.

Our flesh becomes one.

His twisted mind sees his loved one,
sees her smile, and erases out the

horror of reality.

You're kissing.

And the way you curl.

Delicious and distracting girl.

Into one's arms and round about.

Inextricably in and out.

Turning luxuriously as twine. The
clasping tangles of the vine.

So loving to be loved.

So gay and greedy for a holiday.

Strong to embrace and long to kiss.

And strenuous for the sharper bliss.

A little tossing sea of sighs.

To the slow calm.

Seals up your eyes.

And then.

How prettily you sleep.

You nestle close and let me keep my
strained fingers in the nest.

Of your most comfortable breast.

And as I dream.

Lying awake.

Of sleep well wasted for your sake.

I feel the very pulse and heat.

of your young lifeblood beat and beat
with mine.

And you are mine, my sweet.