  Truly, this age will be known As one of minute extremes Courting an elderly shape In a violent bar-room scene. An Amazon made filthy by centuries, And fuming pygmies, own the stage. Thin furies of emotion Name every color in the rainbow Without its skillful assent, And little mental skeletons Stamp with clumsy weirdness On effigies of the heart. The pygmies often sneak To the prancing Amazon And the ensuing love-scene produces Small memories of Walt Whitman. This age is not metaphysical. Followers of Dada, Weary of electron-soliloquies And fleshly ecstasies with flat feet, Sit in the gallery And throw loose malice at the display, Evading their motives with an eager creed. Concentrate your aim, Followers of Dada. |
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