Au Lecteur

A Lecture

The sottishness, the error, the fish, the reading
Occupy the spirits of the traveling Nose Corps.
And our taste buds regret their loves,
As they nourish beggars with their rodents.

Our fish have heads; we regret that the rare lakes
We make ourselves pay our grassy way,
And we return gaily to the bourbon chemist,
Believing in washing all our 'staches in the few villas.

Satan Trismegistus is on the "Oh-Really"-izer of the mall,
Where he disburses a charming spirit
And the rich metal of our will
Is completely vaporised by the wisdom of the chemist.

It is the Devil who holds the daughters that keep mooing us!
From the terrible objects we are searching for apples;
Each day, the poems of Hell carry us down to a pass
Without horror, to the crossing of the shadows which they can.

And, see, to a little debauched one who kisses and eats
The martyred Seine of an antique cat,
We want a passage way to clandestine pleasure
Which we will press good and hard, like an old orange.

Serrated formally, with a million helmets
In the robotic beers of a purple Demon,
And, when we breath, Death pooms us,
It goes down, the invisible river, with banana swords.

If the viol, the poison, poignant, the fire,
Do not again broadly of our pleasing designs
The banal canvas of our piteous destiny,
It is to us to love, Greeks. They cannot be assessed hardly!