«With blare of brass a funeral / Procession slowly walks... / A wax-like nose sticks gruesomely / Up from the coffin-box. Did he only want some more air... / Inside his empty chest? / The latest snow was dingy white; / The crumbed road rough — at best. And only sleet, the turgid sleet...»
«Of all the things which tempt me, I’ll remember / No, not your body - rippling like a spring, / And not your crimson smile with its wet shimmer / But that cold serpent of your suffering. So in a ballroom - banal, many-colored, / Sometimes when spirit-stirring waltzes play, / I conjure i...»
«The gladsome day burns on... and mixed with the spent grass, / Patches of poppies shine like greedy impotence, / Like lips, seduction-full, through which poison will pass, / Like opened wings of red butterflies’ opulence. The gladsome day burns on... The garden empties, sheds / Its tempta...»
«The blood-red day grows rabidly / While burning up the azure mist. / Then often I call up the dusk, / The cool dark of the amethyst... So that no sultry rays would make / The amethyst’s clear facets glow, / But just a candle shimmering, / Liquid and fiery, would flow. Being refracted...»