There’s a clamour at the club, feral fervour
And the Dancer de-briefs, de-clothes, de-dames
And picks her favourite from her list of names.
There are dogs in the seats pawing at the stage
Grinning starved, and rank blood in their bare
and the Dancer turns to meet their stare
A man lights a match and cries, laughs both
And sets it to a pile of fifties, all
And the Dance revels in the squall
And the inferno sighs and soars
And the flesh melts off, drips to acid pools
And the dogs in the front seats drool
The Dance lives on, the speakers squeal
A protest slain; and the dogs still yearn
And the dancer’s bones to dust, turn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem