Ultimate Collection

Gleaming ivory, black basalt;

Red lips parted and brooding eyes—

Woman of mystery, whose fault

That a black hand spreads your heavy thighs?

Only the carven marble cats

Frozen along the winding frieze,

Only the silent night-winged bats

Know who has lain between your knees.

What were the heights to which you rose?

What were the deeps to which you sank?

What slaves shuddered beneath your blows?

Deep of your charms what masters drank?

Sated deep of your tribe and blood,

Desire again rose up like a wave,

Coursing your veins in a burning flood

At the smooth round limbs of the great black slave.

One more mystery to attain,

One more sensual depth to explore;

Nights of fierce and exalted pain

Racking the soul to its burning core.

White form lapped by the great black arms,

Pleas that are meant to be in vain,

Fingers ravishing secret charms,

Shrill sharp cries of ecstatic pain.

Silver stars in the blue cobalt.

Aura’d lust of a leering god;

Ivory mingling with black basalt,

White legs spread to a stiff black rod.

To a Woman

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Though fathoms deep you sink me in the mould,

Locked in with thick-lapped lead and bolted wood,

Yet rest not easy in your lover's arms;

Let him beware to stand where I have stood.

I shall not fail to burst my ebon case,

And thrust aside the clods with fingers red:

Your blood shall turn to ice to see my face

Look from the shadows on your midnight bed.

To face the dead, he, too, shall wake in vain,

My fingers at his throat, your scream his knell;

He will not see me tear you from your bed,

And drag you by your golden hair to Hell.

To Certain Cultured Women

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Open the window; the jungle calls;

(Searching winds in the grasses rank)

Your masters sleep in the silent halls.

(Breathe the wind, grown haunting and dank.)

Restless woman with magic eyes,

Jungle love is your heritage;

Deep in your soul it slumbers and lies,

Waking after an ageless age.

Men of your hue have drawn apart,

Climbing to heights you never can climb,

The jungle lies in your deep red heart,

Claiming you after a timeless time.

Men of your hue have turned away

From club and arrow and trail and cave—

Deep in your brain you long today

For the fires where the dancers leap and rave.

Open the window; there waits without

One who will sate your primal lust;

One who will grip you and strip and flout,

Humble your pride to the pulsing dust;

Make you a woman primal, debased,

Tame you as you wish to be tamed,

Waking the days when girls were chased

Hard through the reeking woods and shamed.

What do the men of your own race give?

Honor and wealth and tenderness—

What would you have to fully live?

Shame and pain and the whip’s caress!

Wild and ecstatic, burning pain,

Fingers that yield not to your plea—

Loins against which you strive in vain,

Blows and a brutal mastery.

Men may rise to the shining gates,

Out of the ancient bestial sea—

You are still, with your loves and hates,

Primal woman—and ever shall be.

Open the window; your masters sleep;

Wary and cautious; wake them not.

You feel the hot blood raven and leap,

Coursing veins that are passion hot.

Open the window; he waits without;

(Eyes agleam in the gliding gloom)

The jungle raises one gloating shout

As a black man glides in your moonlit room.

Toper

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Toil, cares, annoyances all fade away;

I care not who may run for President.

I drowse and swing my rum the live-long day,

And watch the shallops skimming o'er the bay.

To the Contended

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Bide by the fluted iron walls

Take ye a serving wench to wife;

Drown in the pot the bugle's calls,

Trade your spear for a peddler's knife.

Turn to the vendor's paltry strife,

Gird ye round with doors and bars

Safely snore in the lap of Life—

I must follow the restless stars.

Wait at the doors of your master's halls

—For the faithful server, boards are rife—

Make no oath when the whip-lash falls—

Hark to the counsel of your wife;

Trade your harp for a peddler's fife.

But gods, the spray and the plunging spars!

Here is my heart—in the heart of Life

And I must follow the restless stars

Envoi

King, there are stallions in golden stalls,

But bars of sapphire are only bars!

Bide in peace in the high safe halls—

I must follow the restless stars.

A Tribute to the Sportsmanship of the Fans

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Headlock, hammerlock, toss him on his bean again,

Jump on his belly and boot him in the hips,

Clamp the scissors on his neck

and choke him till he's green again

Get the fans wild-eyed, with froth on their lips.

Barlock, body-slam, nibble on his ears again—

Its just like eating cabbage—and kick him in the groin,

Butt him in the belly, that brings the cheers again,

The fans want a run for their hard-spent coin.

Flying-mare, toe-hold, twist his neck around again,

Wrap his legs around his waist and tie them in a knot,

Stamp in his mouth so his teeth cannot be found again,

The fans paid their money so make it good and hot.

Stranglehold, leg-split, jerk his knee-caps loose again,

Crack his ribs and break his arms, leave him life-long lame,