In which the indolent seer revels in renouncing Comments

In which the indolent seer revels in renouncing
pleasure rather muses on nothingness than
really relaxes or does something.

In which a flowerbed of white thighs dreamless
abode from before a roses fingering dawn
soothes hand to sleep until goaded rises.

In which turgid cloudwrack praise of apathy
exalts rigor of rut awakes.

In which morning into mouths still tasting
of gin of bad cigars wriggles her leather
tongue inducing nausea.

In which balloons wrinkling on faded garlands
in draught hang dancing our hero
detaches stuck-together little beakers

scoffing bogies vanish into lawns.
...
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