The gold-sheathed foot turned from my kiss
in a time not measured by calendars or clocks;
the slender foot sheathed in one of two gold socks'
softness reminds me of the much that I did amiss
and now I am forbidden the ejaculatory bliss
that the Poet I abhor is glad to receive;
because I allowed haters and prudes to deceive
me with their invectives of vinegar and piss.
In my own, fetid flatulence
is the veritable stench of my soul
as it writhes and rots with spiritual gangrene;
constellations gone by, above me, unseen.
The reddened glow, all that I have from Mars,
illuminates for me the finality of these bars
(their existence is only metaphysical,
and only to me---and no other---visible)
behind which I cannot hope to approach the stars.
"Heinie (Heinrich) Cranch"