  OH pity me! for day by countless day And night by night in vain anxiety I wait for something that will never come. I long to splutter, crumble, cut the dust, I long to cleave my prisoners, to gash Their bleeding entrails, slit their tangled guts Until they die in anguish on the floor. A window paralysed and stiffened, I Must even stare upon the dull world’s form And watch the doings of a thousand clowns Repeated lamentably day by day. Dawn rises not with graceful motion here, But with policemen plodding on their beat And whistling apple-faces, clattering Of milk-cans, painted carts and bicycles; The water in the closet down below Continually gingles, splish-a-splash, And I go mad for very monotones. The neat grey clerks trip to their offices Meticulously punctual, little bags Keep runic-rhythm to their gander steps. The sun blinds like a harsh electric bulb, Slicing the street in pools of amber light, Chipping the railings here and chopping there The tulips of the houses opposite. The clock strikes nine and now with sleek top-hats, The tea and toast still tasting in their mouths, The Times not full digested in their minds, The pompous middle-aged to business go Soliloquising fondly to themselves About the new percentage income tax. Then convex matrons interview the cook. A sunburnt cretin cringes down below For pennies, jangling out the tinny notes Of some old catch of Marie Lloyd that scarce Can drag a tune from out its crippled box. Some children skip in time, a monkey bows And capers to the laughing passers-by. The cretin then wheels off and all is still Save for the singing of the charwoman— “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,” she sings With shrill, cracked voice resounding down the street Like the sharp scrape of tin-tacks desperate, Persistent in the hollowed crystal air, Till sounds dissolve to liquid quietude. The hot dust smeared along the roadway chokes The sneezing passers-by and slowly mounts Into their nostril-caves distressingly Like microscopic gnats, but now there come Refreshing rumblings from the water-cart, Which spits small Beardsley-drops about the street And trickles down into the gutters fast, Whilst I am left to numbly contemplate The thin, white apron strings of cloud above, Until the raucous luncheon-bell once more Calls upon men to glut themselves with food. Then hour on hour of thudded octaves; hour On hour of doddering on yellow keys— Long, shapeless valses, British Grenadiers, Whilst water in the closet down below Persists in gurgling semitone applause. The clouds grow sullen and the clerks return As neat as they set out. But in their minds, (Impenetrable masks), their tired thoughts Succeed each other, feeble and fatigued. One, after supper and a game of whist, Will rest his run-down clock-work on a bed. The gas-lamps prick their whiteness in the skies, The footsteps of a weary harlot’s tread Remind the street that there is sin abroad. But dismally sin ever fails to lure These brazen men from happy families, Content to snore beneath their handkerchieves. The clock strikes twelve and I am left alone To wait for something that will never come.... |
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