1919

The Camera Eye (31)

a matrass covered with something from Vantine’s makes a divan in the ladyphotographer’s studio we sit on the divan and on cushions on the floor and the longnecked English actor reads the Song of Songs in rhythms

and the ladyphotographer in breastplates and silk bloomers dances the Song of Songs in rhythms

the little girl in pink is a classical dancer with panpipes but the hennahaired ladyphotographer dances the Song of Songs in rhythms with winking bellybutton and clash of breastplates in more oriental style

stay muh with flahgons comfort muh with ahpples

for I am sick of loeuve

his left hand is under muh head and his rahght hand doth embrace muh

the semiretired actress who lived upstairs let out a yell and then another Burglars secondstory men Good god she’s being attacked we men run up the stairs poor woman she’s in hysterics Its the wrong flat the stairs are full of dicks outside they’re backing up the waggon All right men on one side girls on the other what the hell kind of place is this anyway? Dicks coming in all the windows dicks coming out of the kitchenette

the hennahaired ladyphotographer holds them at bay draped in a portière waving the telephone Is this Mr. Wickersham’s office? District Attorney trying experience a few friends a little dance recital in the most brutal manner prominent actress upstairs in hysterics allright officer talk to the District Attorney he’ll tell you who I am who our friends are

Dicks slink away waggon jangles to another street the English actor is speaking Only by the greatest control I kept muh temper the swine I’m terrible when I’m aroused terrible

and the Turkish consul and his friend who were there incog belligerent nation Department of Justice Espionage hunting radicals proGermans slipped quietly out and the two of us ran down the stairs and walked fast downtown and crossed to Weehawken on the ferry

it was a night of enormous fog through which moved blunderingly the great blind shapes of steamboat sirens from the lower bay

in the bow of the ferry we breathed the rancid riverbreeze talking loud in a shouting laugh

out of the quiet streets of Weehawken incredible slanting viaducts lead up into the fog