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.