Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593) was an English playwright, poet and translator of the Elizabethan era, his play and take on “Doctor Faustus” (c. 1589) is still on show today (see: Better the 😈 u no). Marlowe, it is said, was the foremost Elizabethan tragedian of his day. He also had, according to hearsay &c., a colourful life that can be correctly labelled as: short ‘n’ illustrious.
While little is known about Marlowe’s life (in distinction to his writings) stories of his ‘interesting’ affairs do abound and, let us be honest, who cares about fact checking when such tales are so titillating? He has often been described as a spy, a heretic, as well as a “magician”, “duellist” (a person who fights duels for their honour: pistols at dawn after a piss up and porn), “tobacco-user”, “counterfeiter” and “rakehell.” In short-form a rake was a ‘man’ who dealt in immoral conduct, particularly womanising. A typical rake would burn away his inherited wealth on fine wine, racy women and slanderous suggestive sing-song (think: “debauchee” / “libertine”).
Show me the way /
To the next whisky bar / Oh, don’t ask why /
Oh, don’t ask why //
❝ Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum? ❞
— Christopher Marlowe
Oh “K”. . . this ain’t ‘the’ Helen (she’s here: No Second Troy) but she’s the incarnation of mine; no froth, pure wrath:
Red-eyed and deadened heart
endless regret and emptiness
my time with you was divinity defined
oh for the past: our perfect partnership
resting on one another after amore
searching each other’s open books
everything was to look forward to — Remorse
Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but ignorance. Birds of the air will tell of murders past. I am asham’d to hear such fooleries!
Infinite riches in a little room.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
What feeds me destroys me.
What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
Anna Bidoonism 