A Poetry Society — in Madagascar?

By Aleister Crowley.

The Poetry Society. St. Vitus,
      St. Borborygmus, aid! The thin screams fell
      And rose like spasms in some hothouse hell
Peopled by scraggier harpies than Cocytus.

Dull dirty décolletées dilettante!
      I sickened to the soul; above the babble
      Of the cacophonous misshapen rabble,
Rose like a cliff the awful form of Dante.

Colossally contemptuous, in airy
Stature the iron eyes of Alighieri
      Burn into mine; their razor lightnings carve
My capon soul. “What dost thou here?” they said: “
Art thou not even worthy to be dead?
      “Canst thou not go into the street, and starve?”

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