The Winged Beetle

TELEPATHY 67 We slew the victim rightfully : We tore his soul to tatters, Still laughing through the tragedy— We knew that nothing matters ! Yea ; fitted that strange play of Pan For Gods and fiends ; but not for man ! Unless—unless—unless—unless Our priestly hands were steaming With other life (sweet murderess !) That his that lay there screaming Between our knives—Or blood ! confess The truth ; or am I dreaming ? Yea ; floating on that cold pale flood Were two red stars of our own blood. We left our laugh, a smouldering coal Upon his naked middle : We ravelled out his love ; we stole His heart-strings for our fiddle : Strange tortured music from his soul We wrung, a writhing riddle ! Yea : our mouths took a subtle curve As we devoured him nerve by nerve. We danced, obscenely delicate, The dance of cup and thyrsus ;