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