The Lost Lunar Baedeker by Mina Loy Page B

world
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to the test of intuition
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Smiling from ear to ear
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Living from other hands to mouth
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Holding in immaculate arms
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the syphilitic sailor
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â on his avoided death bunk
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â or the movie vamp
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â among the muffled shadows of the shrubberies——
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Picking lemons in Los Angeles             broke
    The education of “Prince Fils à Papa”
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â How low men die
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â How women love—
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â The rituals of Dempsey and Carpentier
    PERLUN
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â asks “Do these flappers of the millionaires
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â think I’m a doll for anyone to pat?”

Poe
    a lyric elixir of death
    Â Â Â Â embalms
    Â Â Â Â the spindle spirits of your hour glass loves
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â on moon spun nights
    sets
    Â Â Â Â icicled canopy
    Â Â Â Â for corpses of poesy
    Â Â Â Â with roses and northern lights
    Â Â Â Â Where frozen nightingales in ilix aisles
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â sing burial rites

Apology of Genius
    Ostracized as we are with God—
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â The watchers of the civilized wastes
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â reverse their signals on our track
    Â 
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Lepers of the moon
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â all magically diseased
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â we come among you
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â innocent
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of our luminous sores
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â unknowing
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â how perturbing lights
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â our spirit
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â on the passion of Man
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â until you turn on us your smooth fools’ faces
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â like buttocks bared in aboriginal mockeries
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â We are the sacerdotal clowns
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â who feed upon the wind and stars
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â and pulverous pastures of poverty
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Our wills are formed
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â by curious disciplines
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â beyond your laws
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â You may give birth to us
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â or marry us
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the chances of your flesh
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â are not our destiny—
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â The cuirass of the soul
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â still shines—
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â And we are