Bedouin of the London Morning
We come into the cafe at dawn,
There are waterfogs, and civilisation is white
. . . if you knew the exotic disgust that grips me
After another bestial night
As we come in, broken; dark with inks and dusts and gases
Like those whose private apartment is the street.
After an all-night conversation
When the street-wind hangs on snarlin to your coat,
If you knew my (half-erotic) convulsion of loathing
For the night. (I'm like a sleeper
When his mouth is stopped up
By some terrible mud-crust the dream has crammed there
And the soul goes pressing up against
Trying to scream with hydrophobia - and can only murmur.
Some love-thought turns his mouth to blood with longing
Only a moment later.) In the workman's cafe
If you knew the almost voluptuous sense of frustration
When you're broken . . .
And the morning's alcoholic as a lily.
Subterranean Blue Poetry