—­Tatters!  Out of that, you mongrel!

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight.  He slunk back in a curve.  Doesn’t see me.  Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock. and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it.  He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.  The simple pleasures of the poor.  His hindpaws then scattered the sand:  then his forepaws dabbled and delved.  Something he buried there, his grandmother.  He rooted in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it?  Wait.  Open hallway.  Street of harlots.  Remember.  Haroun al Raschid.  I am almosting it.  That man led me, spoke.  I was not afraid.  The melon he had he held against my face.  Smiled:  creamfruit smell.  That was the rule, said.  In.  Come.  Red carpet spread.  You will see who.

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians.  His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.  With woman steps she followed:  the ruffian and his strolling mort.  Spoils slung at her back.  Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet.  About her windraw face hair trailed.  Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville.  When night hides her body’s flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired.  Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O’Loughlin’s of Blackpitts.  Buss her, wap in rogues’ rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell!  A shefiend’s whiteness under her rancid rags.  Fumbally’s lane that night:  the tanyard smells.

    White thy fambles, red thy gan
    and thy quarrons dainty is. 
    Couch A hogshead with me then. 
    In the DARKMANS clip and kiss.

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, FRATE PORCOSPINO.  Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.  Call away let him:  Thy quarrons dainty is.  Language no whit worse than his.  Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles:  roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

Passing now.

A side eye at my Hamlet hat.  If I were suddenly naked here as I sit?  I am not.  Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun’s flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands.  She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load.  A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake.  Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, OINOPA Ponton, a winedark sea.  Behold the handmaid of the moon.  In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise.  Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled.  OMNIS Caro ad te VENIET.  He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth’s kiss.