[...]
Quick to plunge, bite, put the light out, hide my face in shame, make love to her tremendously because of lack of love for a year almost and the need pushing me down-our little agreements in the dark, the really should-not-be-tolds-for it was she who later said "men are so crazy, they want the essence, the woman is the essence, there it is right in their hands but they rush off errecting big abstract constructions."-"You mean they should just stay home with the essence, that is lie under a tree all day with the woman but Mardou that's an old idea of mine, a lovely idea, I never heard it better expressed and never dreamed."-"Instead they rush off and have big wars and consider women as prizes instead of human beings, well man I may be in the middle of all this shit but I certainly don't want any part of it" (in her sweet cultured hip tones of new generation).-And so having had the essence of her love now I errect big word constructions and thereby betray it really-telling tales of every gossip sheet the washline of the world-and hers, ours, in all the two months of our love (I thought) only once-washed as she being a lonely subterranean spent mooningdays and would go to the laundry with them but suddenly it's dank late afternoon and too late and the sheets are gray, lovely to me-because soft.-But I cannot in this confession betray the intermosts, the thighs, what the thighs contain-and yet why write?-the thighs contain the essence-yet tho there I should stay and from there I came and'll eventually return, still I have to rush off and construct construct-for nothing-for Baudelaire poems-
[...]
THE SUBTERRANEANS
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