Rosa Inferni

Head downward, gorged with sweet banana juice, Indifferent to—incapable of—aught Beyond these simple reflexes. Is thought, Even the highest thought, of any use ? IV E are not discussing metaphysics now. I see below the beautiful low brow (Low too for cunning, like enough !) your lips, A scarlet splash of murder. From them drips This heart’s blood ; you have fed your fill on me. I am exhaust, a pale, wan phantom floating Aimless in air, than which I am thinner. You I see, more brilliant, of that sanguine hue (If anything be true that I can see) Full fed ; you smile, a smile obscenely gloating On the voluptuous wreck your lust hath wrought. See the loose languor of precipitate thought These versicles exhale ! How rude the rime ! There is no melody ; the tune and time Are broken. Thirteen centuries ago They would have said, “ Alas ! the youth ! We know This devil hath from him plucked the immortal soul.” I say : you have dulled my centres of control ! 4 W