Vol. 28 No. 2 1961 - page 200

THE GAME
(Le
leu)
Cheeks chalked, blacked lashes, eyes still terrible-–
old bags glittering under chandeliers,
as they titter and make a waterfall
of stone and metal fall from their thin ears;
my hang-dog shadow joining in the queue,
as fixtures holding fifty candles light
the profiles of great men who used to write,
and here gasp out their ulcerous guts to screw;
crowding this gameboard, faces without lips,
lips white as teeth, false uppers without jaws,
bone fingers running through the youthful grips,
still fumbling emptied pockets and false bras .
This is the sort of tableau of my doom
self-love imagines for my terminus;
stuck in a corner of the waiting-room,
I see myself withdrawn and lecherous-
envying the war-horses' running sores,
this
one's torn nerves, that one's arthritic grace,
the graveyard gaity of these old whores,
angling their flesh for traffic in my face-
envying those who scuttle character,
and crowd full sail into the blue abyss–
these drunk for blood, who
in
the end prefer
dishonor to death, and hell to nothingness.
159...,190,191,192,193,194,195,196,197,198,199 201,202,203,204,205,206,207,208,209,210,...322
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