Old courtesans in washed-out armchairs, br pale, eyebrows blacked, eyes ‘tender’, ‘fatal’, br simpering still, and from their skinny ears br loosing their waterfalls of stone and metal: br Round the green baize, faces without lips, br lips without blood, jaws without the rest, br clawed fingers that the hellish fever grips, br fumbling an empty pocket, heaving breast: br below soiled ceilings, rows of pallid lights, br and huge candelabras shed their glimmer, br across the brooding brows of famous poets: br here it’s their blood and sweat they squander: br this the dark tableau of nocturnal dream br my clairvoyant eye once watched unfold.