  The words of men are not conjectures Lunging toward your soul: They do not wish you to leave The fawning thefts of flesh. When with covered formality They tramp from actual pulpits, They merely bring celestial nonsense For one, uncurious, sanctified bed. Ah, girl, the soul that they give you Is a clumsy, white Concert-master rebuking The first-violin of your body. Again they brand a word, Sacredness, upon your breast, Claiming that your soul is tied To the pliant riot of your limbs. Girl, I can forget for a moment That hairs upon the bulge of my chest Must be praised or censured, And I have no desire To belittle you with one, Hopeless, cynical, sententious Group of words, while intellect, Flavoring its tea-cup with a sneer, Watches you from shaded balconies. When you win the torpid illness Known as virtue you are less important Than a quest for daisies in the moon, And when you merely ask For one blow and inertness, An old dream yells and ends With the quietness of sprawling pity. Drugs of seriousness and spend Pieces of your heart on every whim. Give your flesh the light and sharp Contacts of a thistle blown Across the wincing cheeks of rogues. Make your soul and body spurn Each other with a swift impertinence, And let your clawing griefs and joys Be still a moment on the couch of thought. And if at times you turn your head To spy the hatred of philosophers And panting realists, preserve the smile Of one who takes a suitable reward. |
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