My brain is like a tropical forest, dark and sinister,
In whose branches and hedges thoughts dart and play like scarlet scarabees;
Or, sometimes, like a sea of phosphorescent light
In which images sport like flying fish.
A garden, too, wherein walk sadic Christs and Neros that are Paraclete,
Which on a sudden changes into a seraglio peopled with scarlet angels
Who choir their prayers of passion to a cataleptic Sultan.
In fortunate hours it is like a chariot made of sun-motes
Drawn by two great butterflies caught by Titans of the Moon,
And it carries me past the sparkling sweat-beads on the face of the celestial Ethiope
And the sorrows of the multi-millioned creatures who pullulate in their depths
To the solemn solitudes of the Nirvana of fairies who drowse forever on the Golden Thigh of Pythagoras.
My brain! my brain! ’Tis star-exiled from space
And sent to the Siberia of my skull without reprieve;
A stomach that I shall one day disembowel,
Whose spillings shall become beautiful words and shall dance and dance away!
Source: Others, May – June 1916 (Vol. II, Nos. 5 and 6), pp. 243 – 244