“The women come & go
talking of Michaelangelo.”
– T.S. Eliot
Old loves for old age. Tell us of the women of Manila—
Temps perdu. & we open wide the closets for flowers, skulls
hidden among the mugs of absinthe, bongo, & gaslamp jazz.
O How dirty old men keep in stride with rock-bed lust!
Having known the dip of women & burnth of deeper rose,
we hobble on the green of secret walks: What evening is
but the welter of terrible storms of doves; what passes
by, as chairs in porticoes sag, is simple weave of light.
Dream, dry bastards, of limbs & chords once rocks to spare
mistresses who skitter by the rage of rivers, hands in hair:
Pull down the turret, dear Prufrock, spit your gloom away!
Slobbering on our tombs of knees, we pray for early death
while brats of kith & kin clamber up our broken chairs:
“O But the games you play, children, are neither new nor fair!”