if i should sleep with a lady called death
if i should sleep with a lady called death
get another man with firmer lips
to take your new mouth in his teeth
(hips pumping pleasure into hips).

Seeing how the limp huddling string
of your smile over his body squirms
kissingly, i will bring you every spring
handfuls of little normal worms.

Dress deftly your flesh in stupid stuffs,
phrase the immense weapon of your hair.
Understanding why his eye laughs,
i will bring you every year

something which is worth the whole,
an inch of nothing for your soul.


     a blue woman with sticking out breasts hanging
clothes.  On the line. not so old
for the mother of twelve undershirts(we are told
by is it Bishop Taylor who needs hanging

that marriage is a sure cure for masturbation).

     A dirty wind,twitches the,clothes which are clean
--- this is twilight,
          a little puppy hopping between
          (It is the consummation
of day,the hour)she says to me you big fool
she says i says to her i says Sally
i says

        mmmoon,begins to,drool

softly,in the hot alley,

a nigger's voice feels curiously cool
(suddenly-Lights go!on,by schedule


when you went away it was morning
(that is, big horses; light feeling up
streets; heels taking derbies (where?) a pup
hurriedly hunched over swill; one butting

trolley imposingly empty; snickering
shop doors unlocked by white-grub
faces) clothes in delicate hubbub

as you stood thinking of anything,

maybe the world . . . . But i have wondered since
isn't it odd of you really to lie
a sharp agreeable flower between my

amused legs
        kissing with little dints

of april, making the obscene shy
breasts tickle, laughing when i wilt and wince


(the phonograph's voice like a keen spider skipping

quickly over patriotic swill.
The,negress,in the,rocker by the,curb,tipping

and tipping,the flocks of pigeons.  And the skil-

ful loneliness,and the rather fat
man in bluishsuspenders half-reading the
Evening Something
       in the normal window.  and a cat.

A cat waiting for god knows makes me

wonder if i'm alive(eye pries,

not open. Tail stirs.) And the.fire-escapes ---
the night.makes me wonder if,if i am
the face of a baby smeared with beautiful jam


  my invincible Nearness rapes

laughter from your preferable,eyes


--- ©1923, e. e. cummings

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