In this place I felt her coming
Clock-like, ticking, tacking, talking,
Crying in her whining stammer –
A promise broken before its making,
The small of wet-grass on an autumn morning.
They sung a Mass on Sunday last
With Medieval incantation,
Flat in conception, gross in pretension.
She was Christ in an aureole
And I – God the Father.
Now with darkness ring the Church bell
Heralding sinister devotions
Not unlike the pious suctions –
Sweat midst sheets with God embroidered,
We sing chansons of Baudelaire:
Alors, o ma beaute, dites a la vermine
Qui vous manger de baisers,
Que j’ai garde la forme et l’essence divine
De mes amours decomposes!