The Winged Beetle

85 THE OCTOPUS THE red lips of the Octopus are more than myriad stars of night. The great beast writhes in fiercer foam than thirty stallions amorous. I would they clung to me and stung ; I would they quenched me with delight, The red lips of the Octopus. They reek with poison of the sea, scarlet and hot and languorous. My skin drinks in their slaver warm ; my sweats his rapt embrace excite. The heavy sea rolls languidly o’er the ensanguine kiss of us. We strain and strive, we die for love ; we linger in the lusty fight ; We agonize ; our clutch becomes more cruel and more murderous ; My passion splashes out at last ; ah ! with what ecstasy I bite The red lips of the Octopus ! Amsterdam, Xmas 1897.