85 
 
 
 
 
 
THE OCTOPUS 
 
THE red lips of the Octopus are more than myriad stars of 
night. 
The great beast writhes in fiercer foam than thirty 
stallions amorous. 
I would they clung to me and stung ;  I would they 
quenched me with delight, 
The red lips of the Octopus. 
 
They reek with poison of the sea, scarlet and hot and 
languorous. 
My skin drinks in their slaver warm ;  my sweats his 
rapt embrace excite. 
The heavy sea rolls languidly o’er the ensanguine kiss of us. 
 
We strain and strive, we die for love ;  we linger in the 
lusty fight ;   
We agonize ;  our clutch becomes more cruel and more 
murderous ;   
My passion splashes out at last ;  ah !  with what ecstasy I 
bite 
The red lips of the Octopus !   
 
 
Amsterdam, Xmas 1897.