And call across the gulf to us, and signal kisses through the vast;

  We shall disdain, clasp vaster yet, and mock his newer pangs, and call

  With stars and voices musical, jeers his touched heart shall not forget.

  I would have pitied him. This flower spits blood upon him, so must I

  Cast ashes through the misty sky to mock his faded crown of power,

  And with our laughter’s nails refix his torn flesh faster to the wood,

  And with more cruel zest make good the shackles of the Crucifix.

  So be it, in thy arms I rest, lulled into silence by the strain

  Of sweet love-whispers, while I drain damnation from thy tawny breast.

  Nor heed the haggards sun’s eclipse, feeling thy perfume fill my hair,

  And all thy dark caresses wear sin’s raiment on thy melting lips–

  Nay, by the witchcraft of thy charms to sleep, nor drain that God survive;

  To wake, this only to contrive – fresh passions in thy naked arms;

  And, at that moment when thy breath mixes with mine, like wine, to call

  Each memory, one merged into all, to kiss, to sleep, to mate with death!

  TO MY FIRST-BORN

  At last a father! In Mathilde’s womb

  The poison quickens, and the tare-seeds shoot;

  On my old upas-tree a bastard fruit

  Is grafted. One more generation’s doom

  Fixes its fangs. Crime’s flame, disease’s gloom,

  Are thy birth-dower. Another prostitute

  Predestined, born man, damned to grow a brute!

  Another travels tainted to the tomb!

  My sin, my madness, in thy blood are set,

  A vile imperishable coronet,

  To hound thee into hell! God spits at thee

  The curse thy parents earned. Revenge be thine!

  Kiss Lust, kill Truth, and worship at Sin’s shrine.

  And foul His face with dung – thy infamy!

  CHANT AU SAINT-ESPRIT

  Bah! gros bougre du ciel!

  Tu ne te plais pas seulement

  Des chansons de Gabriel,

  Ni non plus du sacrament

  Tres’ banal, ni des anthemes;

  Mais l’horrible hurlement

  De mes curieux blasphemes

  Te plaira, je parierai!

  Jesus dit ces anathemes:

  ‘Vous ces choses qui direz,

  ‘Blasphemant le Saint-Esprit,

  ‘N’aurez pardon pour jamais!’

  Neanmoins, Jesus, je dis!

  Saint-Esprit, je crois a toi,

  Suceur du callibistris

  Du bon Dieu, ta douce loi

  Moi je garderai toujours!

  Salut, bon et puissant roi!

  Je veux gouter tes amours,

  Avoir ta belle Marie,

  En la jouant les trois tours;

  Derriere, et ventre aussi,

  Et la belle bouche, apres,

  Quand je serai ramolli,

  Ni la semer de bon ble,

  Mais la sucer, si l’on ose

  Apres toi; je n’aimerais

  Comme toi, en plein nevrose,

  Si je devine tes gouts,

  La faire feuille-de-rose!

  Eh, gros bougre? Es-tu fou

  Que ta grosse bouche baise

  (Quand la lune est moins aigue)

  Le bon vin au gout des fraises

  De ces nymphes si sanglantes–

  Ce qu’on nomme ‘les Anglaises’

  Envie-tu ces amantes

  Qui le culte de Sapho

  Jouissent, petites tantes?

  N’exiges-tu quelque impot

  Sur ces fours des Lesbiennes

  Pour ton bon petit jambot?

  Permets-tu que ces chiennes

  Boivent de ta Marie miel,

  Sans que leur p’tits culs tiennent

  Memoire de tes autels?

  Ai-je dit assez, bretteur,

  Pour m’assurer de l’enfer?

  Bah! gros bougre du ciel!

  VICTORY

  Ah, God! that thou has made me thus,

  Content of nought, intent to attain

  The summits of hills amorous,

  The crests desired of all of us,

  By that fierce superflux of pain,

  That battling with strange enemies,

  The awful holocaust of gain,

  And golden rushing of men slain

  Before Thy throne, whose woven lies,

  Fixed by enchantment in the dome

  Of fiery aether, burn with eyes

  Insatiate of Paradise–

  Fixed, if the curse of brackish foam

  Upon the salt unpiteous sea

  Be fixed, or if the faith of Rome

  Shall find in hearts of men a home

  While men are living, fair and free–

  Ah me, since justice must endure

  And draw her sword at last, and be

  The eternal conqueror of Thee.

  And I, shall my support be sure

  In that great day of righteous war?

  Is my soul free? Is my heart pure?

  Shall life diseased in death find cure?

  Or shall the shameless barren whore

  That rules my ways be found my guide,

  Wed in bad bands so foul and sore

  That Liberty shall be not more

  Within my heart or at my side?

  O Pleasure, whom I made my god,

  And based my forehead for thy pride

  And took thy bastard for my bride,

  Subdued my shoulders to thy rod,

  Casting before thy feet the things,

  The virtues that thou didst hate; I trod

  A bloody winepress, and went shod

  With glorius feet stained through with rings,

  Kissed blood that leapt to feel the tongue

  Slip eager through the teeth, while clings

  The lissome body, borne on wings

  Of pain unspeakable, unsung,

  To that tormentor, red and cruel,

  Those teeth that bit for joy, and clung

  Murderously amorous, while the young

  Tender flesh burned, a quivering fuel

  For strange desire, for strange desire,

  Passion and penitence, and dule,

  Love glowing some unholy jewel

  Glittering frightful mid the mire.

  Oh! Love, what utter sweetness yet!

  What agony of curst hell-fire,

  Shame, lust, and infamy, and ire,

  Wrath in the highest heavens set,

  Shame in the soul, and leaping lust

  On pleasure’s flaming parapet,

  An Infanmy that I forget.

  As swords that flash forget the rust

  That clings them round, as fighting men

  Forget their wounds, with no distrust

  Of death. Yea, dust may turn to dust,

  Man’s spirit to his God again,

  But memory cannot fade, and while

  My Hot devouring kisses rain

  On thy worn face, in writhing pain

  Biting my lips, that fiercely smile

  As tigers’ lips, and gnaw thy mouth,

  Till the blood spurts in dainty style

  And blinds and bruises me awhile,

  Yet satiates the awful drouth;

  I suck, and shudder, and rave, and clutch,

  Thy breasts, with wounds and sores uncouth,

  Drenched with diseases of the south,

  The hot south lands, where crooked crutch,

  The leprous arm, the withered hand,

  Bear sway, where thou wast nurtured, such

  A queen as men delight to touch.

  And I, between the wastes of sand

  In one great harbour by a well,

  Met thee, princess of such a band

  Of merchantmen; my curved brand

  Then was raised high, as wild of yell,

  We flashed and charged, and slew thy folk;

  Thou camest to my bed to dwell–

  That day there clanged the gates of hell

  Behind us twain; we never spoke

  Save of love’s bidding we might do,

  Save on our lust to place a yoke

  Too bitter to be lightly broke.

  Each might we drew on, and something new

  Of lust we learnt, insatiate we

  Who wrote in blood the volumes through

  That speak of love. But then there grew

  A giant lust, strong as the sea;

  And we with fresh delight assayed

  The fierce sweet bond of tribady,

  The strange strong sin of sodomy,

  And thus from foe to foe betrayed,

  No pain or pleasure but we knew

  Its utterest essence, whence we made

  All agonies, that God has paid

  With rotting blood, save one, that few

  Could dream of, so divine it is,

  So exquisite, so rich to do,

  The which to-night we meet unto–

  To consummate the angry bliss

  Of all excesses of delight;

  The pain of this divine disease,

  The luxury of the obscene kiss,

  The carnal anguish, and the sight

  Of sore bloody breasts and thighs,

  The bright green river foamed with white,

  The horrid spasms of the night.

  Long have we lusted on this wise;

  Now one delight, the last is left–

  Come, I will lick thine haggard eyes,

  And wallow on thee straddle-wise.

  Here with thy fingers fierce and deft,

  Take me, all bloddy as it is,

  And plunge within thy furious cleft

  My fierce red pillar to the heft!

  Suck deep the poison. Now I wish

  The sweet pollution of thy breath

  Was never so divine! Thy Kiss!

  Ah, sweet Lord Christ! So sweet as this!

  Ah, Christ! Together! Passion! Death!

  SLEEPING IN CARTHAGE

  The month of thirst is ended. From the lips

  That hide their blushes in the golden wood

  A fervent fountain amorously slips,

  The dainty rivers of thy luscious blood;

  Red streams of sweet nepenthe that eclipse

  The milder nectar that the gods hold good–

  How my dry throat, held hard between thy hips,

  Shall drain the moon-wrought flow of womanhood!

  Divinest token of sterility,

  Strange barren fountain blushing from the womb,

  Like to an echo of Augustan gloom

  When all men drank this wine; it maddens me

  With yearnings after new divinity,

  Prize of thy draught, some where beyond the tomb.

  WITH DOG AND DAME: AN OCTOBER IDYLL

  The ways are golden with the leaves

  That Autumn blows about the air,

  The trees sing anthems of despair,

  And my fair mistress binds the sheaves

  Of yellow hair more loose, and weaves

  More subtly bars of song, that bear

  Bright children of love debonair,

  And laughter lightly comes, and reaves

  The garland from our sorrow’s brow,

  Life rises up, is girt with song,

  Joy fills the cup, that flashes clear.

  The year may fade in whispers now,

  Shadow and silence now may throng

  The seasons – we are happy here.

  Autumn is on us as we lie

  In creamy clouds of latticed light

  That hint at darkness, but descry

  A rosy flicker through the night,

  My mistress, my great Dane, and I.

  We linger in the dusk – her head

  Lolls on the pillow, and my eyes

  Catch rapture, as upon the bed

  He licks her lazy lips, and tries

  To tempt her tongue. My fires are fed.

  Her heavy dropping breasts entice

  My teeth to jewel them with blood,

  Her hand prepares the sacrifice

  She would desire of me, the flood

  That wells from shrines of Paradise.

  Her other hand is mischievous

  To bid the monster Dane grow mad,

  His red-haw gaze grows mutinous,

  Her eyes have lost the calm they had,

  My body grows all amorous.

  My tongue within her mouth excites

  Her dirtiest lust, her vilest dream;

  His greedy mouth her bosom bites;

  He cannot hold, his eyeballs gleam;

  He burns to consummate the rites.

  I yield him place: his ravening teeth

  Cling hard to her – he buries him

  Insane and furious in the sheath

  She opens for him – wide and dim

  My mouth is amorous beneath.

  Her lips devour me, and I rave

  With pleasure to discern the love

  They twain exert, my lips who lave

  With doubled dew distilled above;

  To dog and woman I’m a slave,

  Nor move, though now essays the Dane

  To cool his weapon in my mouth;

  Her lust bestrides me, and is fain

  To quench in his sweet sweat her drouth

  Her finger probes my bowel again.

  All three enjoy once more, and I

  Am ready ever to renew

  These bestial orgie-nights, whereby

  Loose woman’s love is spiced, as dew

  On tender spray of spring doth lie.

  Like the cold moon to earth and sun

  My mistress lingers in eclipse,

  We wake her passion, either one

  Licking each pouting pair of lips

  Till new sweet streams of nectar run.

  ‘Tis Autumn, and the dying breeze

  Murmurs ‘embrace’; the moon replies

  ‘Embrace’; the soughing of the trees

  Calls us to linger loverwise,

  And drain our passion to the lees.

  ‘Tis Autumn. The belated dove

  Calls through the beeches, that bestir

  Themselves to kiss the skies above,

  As I will kiss with him and her.

  Leave us, sweet Autumn, to our love.

  HERMAPHRODITE’S DREAM

  I know that winged sprite

  Who flew from heaven – was it hell? –

  Into these bounds of light

  And music – yesternight –

  Had some new song to tell.

  I saw a living soul

  Flame into mortal dress;

  Whose glance – a fiery coal,

  Whose lips – a ruby bowl

  Whose wine was wickedness.

  They were strange lips, I ween,

  Whereon no kiss might be,

  And teeth were sharp therein;

  Ivory and white and keen,

  Tameless as hungering sea.

  Strange body of my desire,

  Voluptuous, lithe, and wan;

  For, on my eyes drawn nigher,

  My hot blood turns to fire,

  Seeing nor maid nor man.

  Not maid, not man – the breast

  Like palaces of gold,

  Yet where my lips caressed,

  In the wild dove’s wild nest

  A dove too soft to hold.

  No dove that Hylas knew,

  No dove that Sappho kissed,

  Nor in wide Heaven there grew

  This child of stranger dew

  Than God’s good spirit wist.

  Yet his wings bare him high,

  Divine beyond control,

  And, like for love to die,

  I felt his arrow fly

  Within my very soul.

  Ah Love! the ambiguous kiss,

  Not man’s nor woman’s touch,

  In that estatic bliss–

  Not hell’s heat, as I wis,

  Had warmed us overmuch.

  Ah! Love! how fierce that night!

  With what unsung desire

  Thy lips and mouth were bright,

  In mine eye to give light,

  And fire to kindle fire.

  Ah Love! nor king nor queen