Classic Poem

I

This is the West
The dogs use English.

This is the proper West
The dogs invite me to the Russian Opera.

This is the West A Western Exposition
The Japanese marketplace for kimono and shopworn curios.

And this is a prison
The guard jangles his keys.

This is a dreary, damp, dank prison
Neither the prisoners nor the wardens trade words with a soul.

And the prisoners are called by number
And the guards stand in the exits / the entranceways.

And then this is a cheap dive
The old fat guy is roaring drunk.

And also this is a cheap whorehouse
The women walk naked.

And this is a hole
Black and fetid.

II

A large hole
A large whorehouse.

A large saloon
A large dampish prison.

A big and seedy sample Japanese marketplace
Undestroyed even by the earthquake.

In the center of Tokyo
Over our heads.

Squats, letting loose a stench
You, Don't sing
Don't sing of flowery grasses or dragonfly wings
Don't sing of the wind's whispering or the smell of woman's hair
All those weak things
All those uncertain things
All gloomy things — brush them aside
Reject all elegance
Sing of solely the honest parts
Parts that will fill the belly
Sing of that very edge where it pierces from the chest
Songs that spring back from being knocked down
Songs that draw up strength from the depths of shame
Those sorts of songs
Clear out fumigate your heart
Fill out your lungs
Sing out in severe rhythm
Those sorts of songs
Pound into the chests of the people going by going by.