Yes, I have the respect of the wise and good,
I am wealthy and beloved,
I have made progress and position among
my industrious fellowmen,
but today when I look at them
I am disgusted by their consistent high morals,
their neat hair and clean shirts and waistcoats,
top hats balanced on meek faces.
I hate something familiar about them
—and then I see it in my cheval glass—
what is familiar in them is me,
my pudgy face, politeness seeping from its pores.
It is me I loathe.
But I have just the tincture for it.
In my dissection room I take
powders from a press in my cabinet;
grinding elements into a compound
with mortar and pestle
I crush that reflection,
place beaker over burner,
lose him in the fog of the ebullient potion,
drink down my remedy,
shrink to my real size,
uncage impatient gaiety, locked up so long
it brims with causeless hatreds and depravity.
To Soho! To fuck prostitutes who wince under
the touch of my corded hairy hands—
their repulsion makes me harder for them.
And when I am done with that
I will beat someone, ecstasy in every blow
I deliver, until I deliver them from life.
Yes, I have the respect of the wise and good,
my industrious fellow men.