The Book of Repulsive Women/Seen From the "L"

So she stands-nude-stretching dully Two amber combs loll through her hair A vague molested carpet pitches Down the dusty length of stairs. She does not see, she does not care It's always there.

The frail mosaic on her window Facing starkly toward the street Is scribbled there by tipsy sparrows– Etched there with their rocking feet. In fashioned too, to every beat Of shirt and sheet.

Still her clothing is less risky Than her body in its prime, They are chain-stitched and so is she Ravelling grandly into vice Dropping crooked into rhyme. Slipping through the stitch of virtue, Into crime.

Though her lips are vague as fancy In her youth– They bloom vivid and repulsive As the truth. Even vases in the making Are uncouth.

We see your arms grow humid In the heat; We see your damp chemise lie Pulsing in the beat Of the over-hearts left oozing At your feet.

See you sagging down with bulging Hair to sip, The dappled damp from some vague Under lip. Your soft saliva, loosed With orgy, drip.

Once we'd not have called this Woman you— When leaning above your mother's Spleen you drew Your mouth across her breast as Trick musicians do.

Plunging grandly out to fall Upon your face. Naked-female-baby In grimace. With your belly bulging stately Into space.