Fixed this lone red tulip, a woman’s mouth of passion kisses, a nun’s mouth of sweet thinking, here topping a straight line of green, a pillar stem?
Who hurled this bomb of red caresses?-nodding balloon-film shooting its wireless every fraction of a second these June days:
Love me before I die;
Love me-love me now.
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On Forty-first Street
a frame house wobbles.If houses went on crutchesthis house would beone of the cripples.A sign on the house:Church of the Living GodAnd Rescue Home for Orphan Children.From a Greek coffee houseAcross the streetA cabalistic jargonJabbers back.And men at tablesSpill Peloponnesian syllablesAnd speak of shovels for street work.And the new embankments of the Erie RailroadAt Painted…
COUNT these reminiscences like money.
The Romans wore glad rags and told their neighbors, ‘What of it? ‘The Carlovingians hauling logs on carts, they tooStuck their noses in the air and stuck their thumbs to their nosesAnd tasted life as a symphonic dream of fresh eggs broken over a frying pan left by an uncle who killed men with spears…
Passing through huddled and ugly walls
Looked from their hunger-deep eyes,Haunted with shadows of hunger-hands,Out from the huddled and ugly walls,I came sudden, at the city’s edge,On a blue burst of lake,Long lake waves breaking under the sunOn a spray-flung curve of shore;And a fluttering storm of gulls,Masses of great gray wingsAnd flying white belliesVeering and wheeling free in the open.
LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office.
It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats-and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober.Here the telegrams come-one king goes and another-butter is costly: there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm-and a…
SHAKE back your hair, O red-headed girl.
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There is something terrible
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