52 
MORTADELLO 
 
Let asps lurk in the orange blossoms of my hair, 
Great gasps of death strangle my Judas-love, despair 
Bite deep into his heart before I draw the veil 
And steep in murder, harpy’s tooth and claw, my pale 
Pure face, my bloodless virgin’s face, to dip and bury 
Its grace in his black blood, my long thin lip made merry 
With mouthing at his heart-strings, and my white throat 
working, 
Its drouth dissolved as the blood sucks, sucks—nightshade 
lurking 
In dells of witchcraft where black Hecate shoots out 
In hell’s lust, her tongue, a frenzy of glee, a bout 
Of death, her crimson tongue that drips, that drips with 
blood, 
The breath of her dead lovers on her lips.  Dear God ! 
Sweet Christ !  My Virgin, sweeter than the joy thou hadst 
of love 
Unpriced, when to thy soft blonde nest thou had’st the 
Dove, 
And crushed the Godhead to thy maiden breast, and craved 
Outgushed the Unction by whose grace the blest are saved— 
Sweet, sweet, oh sweeter when I twine the bond of hate 
Complete about him, with one kiss to fond to mate 
His soul with death, cold slime of lust, my heart.  O Lord. 
Control my passion.  With black smiling art abhorred 
Bring all to the great end.  How now ?  What footfalls stir 
The hall ?  Lucrezia ?  Can she guess my suit to her ? 
Ah no !  not yet.  Be still in deeps of prayer intense 
Bowed low !  And now may God give ear to their incense !