Love Song

Okay, I couldn't resist. Peter started this. I had to decompose Prufrock myself. So, here we go:



Let us go, let us go.
One-night cheap hotels
with oyster-shells
lead you to the yellow fog,
the yellow smoke, its muzzle.
Let fall upon its back
a soft October night.
And indeed there will be time,
there will be time, there will be time
to murder and create, and time
for a question on your plate.

And indeed there will be time
to turn back and descend the stair
for I have known them all already, known them all--
when I am sprawling on a pin, when I
am pinned and wriggling, arms
that are braceleted and bare,
downed with light brown hair!
How should I begin?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
to have bitten off the matter with a smile,
to say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead."