T. S. Eliot and the Nude
Sensuous nude Estee Lauder—
High heeled beyond your ankles aphrodisiac
With bizarre make-up, not Indian make-up,
Opposed to the Greek gods and broke poets—
Oatmeal and banana and Hanover beans are more appealing, more impressive
In a brain yellow fog and deserted streets and window-panes
And supple, incongruent eternity . . .
Forgive me. I—addled beatnik, the loser—
Patronize, err like cruise missiles to Sudan by Bill Clinton,
For you are sacred, too, destined like me
To a psychoanalytic couch in heaven ruled by St. Peter and St. Paul.
I am the arrogant one, foreshortened in Italian master drawings,
Destined to die like Baby Face Nelson. Fetch me—oh, geishas—the Maxwell House and cream.
We both wait surrounded by concrete buildings,
And come June we shall vacation in the Hamptons and the world of Disney.