Turmoil In A Morgue

Negro, Chinaman, White servant-girl, Russian woman, Are learning how to be dead, Aided by the impersonal boredom Of a morgue at evening. The morgue divides its whole Of dead men's contacts into four Parts, and places one in each Of these four bodies waiting for the carts. The frankness of their decay Breaks into contradictory symbols And sits erect upon the wooden tables, Thus cancelling the validity of time. In a voice as passive as slime The negro speaks. 'Killed a woman: ripped her skin. Saw her heart floating in a tumbler of gin. Had to drink her heart because it wouldn't leave the gin. Because I wanted to reach all of her They ripped my flesh. They wanted to reach all of me And their excuse was better than mine.' Cowed baby painted black, The negro sits upon fundamentals And troubles them a little with his hands. The beautiful insanity Of his eyes rebukes The common void of his face. Then the Chinaman speaks In a voice whose tones are brass From which emotion has been extracted. 'Loved a woman: she was white. Her man blew my brains out in the night. Hatred is afraid of color. Color is the holiday Given to moods of understanding: Hatred does not understand. When stillness ends the fever of ideas Hatred will be a scarcely remembered spark.' Manikin at peace With the matchless deceit of a planet, The Chinaman fashions his placid immensity. The Chinaman chides his insignificance With a more impressive rapture Than that of western midgets. His rapture provides an excellent light For the silhouette of the negro's curse. Then the white servant-girl Speaks in a voice whose syllables Fall like dripping flower-juice and offal, Both producing a similar sound. 'I made a neat rug for a man. He cleaned his feet on me and I liked The tired, scheming way in which he did it. When he finished he decided That he needed a smoother texture, And found another lady. I killed myself because I couldn't rub out The cunning marks that he left behind.' Impulsive doll made of rubbish On which a spark descended and ended, The white servant-girl, without question or answer, Accepts the jest of a universe. Then the Russian woman Speaks in a voice that is heat Ill-at-ease upon its couch of sound. 'I married a man because His lips tormented my melancholy And made it long to be meek And because, when he walked to his office each morning, He thought himself a kindled devil Enduring the smaller figures around him. He abandoned me for German intrigue And I chased him in other men, Never quite designing him. Death, a better megalomaniac, Relieved me of the pursuit.' Symbol of earth delighted With the vibration of its nerves, The Russian woman sunders life Into amusing deities of emotion And bestows a hurried worship. Then the morgue, attended by a whim, Slays the intonations of their trance And slips these people back to life. The air is cut by transformation. The white servant-girl retreats to a corner With a shriek, while the negro advances, And the Russian woman Nervously objects to the Chinaman's question. The morgue, weary housewife for speechless decay, Spends its helplessness in gay revenge: Revenge of earth upon four manikins Who straightened up on wooden tables And betrayed her.