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PAINT me a cavernous waste shore |
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| Cast in the unstilled Cyclades, |
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| Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks |
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| Faced by the snarled and yelping seas. |
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| |
| Display me Aeolus above |
5 |
| Reviewing the insurgent gales |
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| Which tangle Ariadne’s hair |
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| And swell with haste the perjured sails. |
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| Morning stirs the feet and hands |
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| (Nausicaa and Polypheme), |
10 |
| Gesture of orang-outang |
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| Rises from the sheets in steam. |
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| |
| This withered root of knots of hair |
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| Slitted below and gashed with eyes, |
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| This oval O cropped out with teeth: |
15 |
| The sickle motion from the thighs |
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| |
| Jackknifes upward at the knees |
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| Then straightens out from heel to hip |
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| Pushing the framework of the bed |
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| And clawing at the pillow slip. |
20 |
| |
| Sweeney addressed full length to shave |
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| Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base, |
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| Knows the female temperament |
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| And wipes the suds around his face. |
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| |
| (The lengthened shadow of a man |
25 |
| Is history, said Emerson |
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| Who had not seen the silhouette |
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| Of Sweeney straddled in the sun). |
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| |
| Tests the razor on his leg |
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| Waiting until the shriek subsides. |
30 |
| The epileptic on the bed |
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| Curves backward, clutching at her sides. |
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| |
| The ladies of the corridor |
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| Find themselves involved, disgraced, |
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| Call witness to their principles |
35 |
| And deprecate the lack of taste |
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| |
| Observing that hysteria |
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| Might easily be misunderstood; |
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| Mrs. Turner intimates |
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| It does the house no sort of good. |
40 |
| |
| But Doris, towelled from the bath, |
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| Enters padding on broad feet, |
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| Bringing sal volatile |
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| And a glass of brandy neat. |
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| |
