The Dirge of the Poet's Fetus

BLASÉ do I say! Have done!
Forward, and tear these roots that glue like night,
Through mamma, love of albumen, to the light,
To the rich gracious stamen of the bright
Rising sun!

 

--Everyone has his turn, and now I am ripe
To irradiate from Limbos my inedited type!

 

On! Break the bar!
Saved from these steppes of mucus, swimming bold
To suck the sun, and, drunk with milk of gold,
Slavering at breasts of clouds through heavens rolled,
And travelling far!

 

--On the other side, I shall be a soul that dotes
On the freshness blown by the wind through petticoats!

 

On, on! and sleep
On the curdled milk of the good clouds that sweep
In God's blue hand, where His eyes in myriads shine,
To be shipwrecked on the land of virile wine!
Now heart be stout,
Now, now, I am getting out ...

 

--And I shall communicate, with my forehead towards the East,
Under species of kisses that know of it not in the least!

 

Forwards! Be free!
Shake, knell of nights! Filter, strong sun of Heaven,
Farewell, ye aquarium woods, which, hatching me,
Into my chrysalis have put this leaven!
Am I cold? Then forward! Ah!
Mamma....

 

--You, madam, as long as you possibly can do, suckle
This poor little terrible babe that knows such a muckle.