A BREATH OF FRESH AIR AT A PARTY

The moon, a little bag of death,
shakes shit within itself above a tree:
a Spanish-rhythmed slog with every breath
insults the intellect, and me.

Now, in a ferment smug and pure,
this single buttock germinates and bursts,
spilling a hate jazz out along the sewer
of light, to taunt the common thirsts.

It's time now for a job of talk.
Why don't they fuck and bugger on the floor?
I came in case they did, so I could gawk,
and it is what they came here for.

-- June 1965, but a remembrance of undergraduate mixer dances in the 1950s