What! No suiting pleasure? Oh! Clap my ears
With your Thunder and Blitz: you are all wrong.
For when the blood lust comes and bodies flare
Their brilliant true colors of doom, no song
Mingles with morning’s residue—burnt black
Flesh becomes seed on crust till rain breaks sod.
Mother takes what idle forms you give back
And cries till Night brings her nepenthe. But God
Will not stand by and watch you blaze an All-pyre.
I come with a hand upon the Harp Divine,
And song to prove Earth has more mirth than mire—
This pitch I spray, flares out a pure white whine!
So come then, I pray thee. I will speak plainly:
Make love with your flesh—come and be lain, yes?
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