Under the dark pillars,
She sits,
With pig-thighs and a sickness of skin.
In the dark, we whirl.
Up frills.
Down stocking-tops.
Ripe and in corners and waving goodbye faces. The down-turned mouths of bye-bye miss you and away away away. Tiny hands and into doorways. We gossip in halls of light. We tickle each other with our lips in castles. Little noses touch and cheek-readiness. Waltzing drives.
Agh, you, gradh, the lovers in doorways fighting for you. Ag, ya gradh, you find us cuddling up and ripping, roaring together in passage. Like a doggy thing. Ready. Hup, hup. Agh, gradh. You look at the whistling burlesque - did you find it there? Oh. Lift up, lift up.
Trembles of lady-callers rest their gentle, knowing hands on your shoulders. Come here, love, come here and over here and under here and your head bowed under over and up and over and over and round and back and front and mess. She makes whirring sounds like a machine. She tucks herself in. And mops. Weary eyes and far away. Just like Gerty.
Calypso faces, terrible lunges at you. Tap-shoes and wriggle-off clothes. Noises and Bakhtin looks on, smiling, laughing, jumping to see such a crowd. All together now. Red and green and lace and net and lines of cleft and oh, such a shoe. Oh such a thigh. Oh such a glimpse. Let me more. More of let me. Let me. Oh let me. More.
Well, I said, you can walk along cobbles and feel so much more than in the other parts of town. Stephen, Poldy, red drawers. Sickness. The hat. You left the hat on the end of the bed. Poor man. He'll come a-home later.
