I, I, my own gauze phantom am, My head frothing under my arm, The buttocks of Venus for my huge davenport.
I orgillous turn, burn, churn,
As his rubbery bosom curds my perspiring arm- The gust of my ghost, I mean- And he wears no woman-sick, puce, and oriflammed a brow That, yes, yes, my hair screamed aloud Louder than death's orchestra or sirocco.
The urge of the purge of the womb of the worm I renege in the flail-like failing of The detumescent sun.
This my crepuscular palimpsest is: I am so greatly him that lazarhouses and such
Lascivious lodges of the unloved Peel like pomegranates at my nasal touch And Balham faints in a scalecophidian void.
To him who broods in the nest of my arches, Fallen or Charing Cross's, like a big bumbling bird,
Before the metropolitan horde Funicling darkly lairward I lay the most holy gifts of my spilt flesh: Far beyond comprehension of golden asinine error I raise to the mirror the maggots and lumps of my terror.
End of title
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