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Book Review for Bedouin of the London Evening: Collected Works:

Subterranean Blue Poetry

Volume III Issue IV


Bedouin of the London Morning

by

Rosemary Tonks


We come into the cafe at dawn,

There are waterfogs, and civilisation is white

. . . if you knew the exotic disgust that grips me


After another bestial night

As we come in, broken; dark with inks and dusts and gases

Like those whose private apartment is the street.


After an all-night conversation

When the street-wind hangs on snarlin to your coat,

If you knew my (half-erotic) convulsion of loathing

For the night. (I'm like a sleeper

When his mouth is stopped up

By some terrible mud-crust the dream has crammed there


And the soul goes pressing up against

Trying to scream with hydrophobia - and can only murmur.

Some love-thought turns his mouth to blood with longing


Only a moment later.) In the workman's cafe

If you knew the almost voluptuous sense of frustration

When you're broken . . .

And the morning's alcoholic as a lily.




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