INTIMATE SCENE
Bed-room, you have earnedThe sympathy of dirt,And bear upon your airMalevolent and thwartedEssences of men.Many contorters of belliesHave stirred an urgent travestyShielded by your greasy dusk,And hearts have found upon your couchA brief, delicious insult.Cheap room within a lodging-house,You are not merely spaceFor the coronation of flesh,And your odorous bed-quiltsNeed not only provokeThe casual jeering of thought.IIWoman and her masterClose the door too quietly.With a mien of slinkingInsecurity, the woman turnsWithin the dangling darkness of the roomAnd mumbles orders to her man.Anticipation and disgustRout each other upon her face.Then the gas-light bringsIts feeble understanding to the room.Woman and man slump downWithin the chairs and regardThe tired amens of their feet.For a time wearinessBanishes the theatricalDivisions of masculine and feminine,But returning strengthCalls to the untrue drama.The man demands, with practised expectation,Money squeezed from an automatic night;Curses at the smallness of the sum,And cuffs his woman without intensity,Desiring only an excuseFor the slowness of his mind.She is not a compositionWaiting for its orchestra of pain:His fists can merely giveAn inexpensive spiceTo the apathy within her.Soon the man and woman laugh,To kill an inner jumble of soundsWhich they cannot separate—Nightly complaint of their souls.He pinches one of her cheeks,Like an Emperor deigningTo test the softness of a bauble,And she finds within his fingersAn endurable compliment.When morning light exposesEach deficiency within the room,Man and woman open their eyes.Hallucination of fireNo longer streams over the moving screens.Woman and her manStare, with disapproval, at the walls,And their souls becomeQuerulous captives almost gaining lips.Then emotional habitsRevive the earthly hoax.Rising from the bed,Man and woman use their voicesReassuringly.
Bed-room, you have earnedThe sympathy of dirt,And bear upon your airMalevolent and thwartedEssences of men.Many contorters of belliesHave stirred an urgent travestyShielded by your greasy dusk,And hearts have found upon your couchA brief, delicious insult.Cheap room within a lodging-house,You are not merely spaceFor the coronation of flesh,And your odorous bed-quiltsNeed not only provokeThe casual jeering of thought.IIWoman and her masterClose the door too quietly.With a mien of slinkingInsecurity, the woman turnsWithin the dangling darkness of the roomAnd mumbles orders to her man.Anticipation and disgustRout each other upon her face.Then the gas-light bringsIts feeble understanding to the room.Woman and man slump downWithin the chairs and regardThe tired amens of their feet.For a time wearinessBanishes the theatricalDivisions of masculine and feminine,But returning strengthCalls to the untrue drama.The man demands, with practised expectation,Money squeezed from an automatic night;Curses at the smallness of the sum,And cuffs his woman without intensity,Desiring only an excuseFor the slowness of his mind.She is not a compositionWaiting for its orchestra of pain:His fists can merely giveAn inexpensive spiceTo the apathy within her.Soon the man and woman laugh,To kill an inner jumble of soundsWhich they cannot separate—Nightly complaint of their souls.He pinches one of her cheeks,Like an Emperor deigningTo test the softness of a bauble,And she finds within his fingersAn endurable compliment.When morning light exposesEach deficiency within the room,Man and woman open their eyes.Hallucination of fireNo longer streams over the moving screens.Woman and her manStare, with disapproval, at the walls,And their souls becomeQuerulous captives almost gaining lips.Then emotional habitsRevive the earthly hoax.Rising from the bed,Man and woman use their voicesReassuringly.
Bed-room, you have earnedThe sympathy of dirt,And bear upon your airMalevolent and thwartedEssences of men.Many contorters of belliesHave stirred an urgent travestyShielded by your greasy dusk,And hearts have found upon your couchA brief, delicious insult.Cheap room within a lodging-house,You are not merely spaceFor the coronation of flesh,And your odorous bed-quiltsNeed not only provokeThe casual jeering of thought.
Bed-room, you have earned
The sympathy of dirt,
And bear upon your air
Malevolent and thwarted
Essences of men.
Many contorters of bellies
Have stirred an urgent travesty
Shielded by your greasy dusk,
And hearts have found upon your couch
A brief, delicious insult.
Cheap room within a lodging-house,
You are not merely space
For the coronation of flesh,
And your odorous bed-quilts
Need not only provoke
The casual jeering of thought.
II
II
Woman and her masterClose the door too quietly.With a mien of slinkingInsecurity, the woman turnsWithin the dangling darkness of the roomAnd mumbles orders to her man.Anticipation and disgustRout each other upon her face.Then the gas-light bringsIts feeble understanding to the room.Woman and man slump downWithin the chairs and regardThe tired amens of their feet.For a time wearinessBanishes the theatricalDivisions of masculine and feminine,But returning strengthCalls to the untrue drama.The man demands, with practised expectation,Money squeezed from an automatic night;Curses at the smallness of the sum,And cuffs his woman without intensity,Desiring only an excuseFor the slowness of his mind.She is not a compositionWaiting for its orchestra of pain:His fists can merely giveAn inexpensive spiceTo the apathy within her.Soon the man and woman laugh,To kill an inner jumble of soundsWhich they cannot separate—Nightly complaint of their souls.He pinches one of her cheeks,Like an Emperor deigningTo test the softness of a bauble,And she finds within his fingersAn endurable compliment.When morning light exposesEach deficiency within the room,Man and woman open their eyes.Hallucination of fireNo longer streams over the moving screens.Woman and her manStare, with disapproval, at the walls,And their souls becomeQuerulous captives almost gaining lips.Then emotional habitsRevive the earthly hoax.Rising from the bed,Man and woman use their voicesReassuringly.
Woman and her master
Close the door too quietly.
With a mien of slinking
Insecurity, the woman turns
Within the dangling darkness of the room
And mumbles orders to her man.
Anticipation and disgust
Rout each other upon her face.
Then the gas-light brings
Its feeble understanding to the room.
Woman and man slump down
Within the chairs and regard
The tired amens of their feet.
For a time weariness
Banishes the theatrical
Divisions of masculine and feminine,
But returning strength
Calls to the untrue drama.
The man demands, with practised expectation,
Money squeezed from an automatic night;
Curses at the smallness of the sum,
And cuffs his woman without intensity,
Desiring only an excuse
For the slowness of his mind.
She is not a composition
Waiting for its orchestra of pain:
His fists can merely give
An inexpensive spice
To the apathy within her.
Soon the man and woman laugh,
To kill an inner jumble of sounds
Which they cannot separate—
Nightly complaint of their souls.
He pinches one of her cheeks,
Like an Emperor deigning
To test the softness of a bauble,
And she finds within his fingers
An endurable compliment.
When morning light exposes
Each deficiency within the room,
Man and woman open their eyes.
Hallucination of fire
No longer streams over the moving screens.
Woman and her man
Stare, with disapproval, at the walls,
And their souls become
Querulous captives almost gaining lips.
Then emotional habits
Revive the earthly hoax.
Rising from the bed,
Man and woman use their voices
Reassuringly.