Whiteness Curled to the solitaire You derobe Rooting erotic garbage Something shiny        Something only for you In the climacteric Smack the flag-stones And if it were not for the people Tongue of Dawn In which a wanton duality Of your New Day But a white towel Carl Van Vechten Papers. Faster Similitude Before I guessed From your I counted    the fringe of the towel To teach them to tell me their secrets The greenhouse never so badly needed paint. As things go, Laughter in solution — — — — — — — — — — Where wine is spill’t on promiscuous lips Prolonging flight into the night My finger-tips are numb from fretting your hair Known for wildly experimental, artful, complicated and compact poetics, Loy's poems (below) tell the tale of a illicit affair and abortion, material unknown to the poetics of the time (1917). Under the moon, Give them some way of braying brassily And I don’t know which turning to take The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves, Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence. No turban walks across the lessened floors. Behind God’s eyes Unnatural selection Breaks Disorb inviolate egos, Where two or three are welded together Pulling door-bells to remind James La Marre reads "Songs to Joannes" by Mina Loy In July 1915, Loy began to write what would be later known as "Songs to Joannes" "(originally "Love songs"), a collection of Modernist, avant-garde love poetry about her disenchantment with Giovanni Papini, another founding Futurist with whom Loy had been in a romantic relationship in Florence. Impossible eyes, The steps go up for ever Love Songs to Joannes. From a round vacuum Only the other half That are something left over from your walking Where the legs of the legs of the furniture are walk­ing to —One wing has been washed in the rain Core of the Own-self distortion Stack noons And I am burnt quite white Eclosion Three Our eye-lids on Love Something the shape of a man — — — — — — — Stringing emotions — — — — — — — — — —, Crucifixion In recaptured pulses Coloured    glass, The skin-sack In pestilent Never reaching — — — — — — —, I am the jealous store-house of the candle-ends That lit your adolescent learning Illimitable monotone, White    where there is nothing to see Mina Loy (born Mina Gertrude Löwy; 27 December 1882 – 25 September 1966) was a British-born artist, writer, poet, playwright, novelist, painter, designer of lamps, and bohemian. Packed Through fingers We might have given birth to a butterfly Looped aloft Songs to Joannes, by Mina Loy. A cosmos Grow to, Leading astray Caught tricks Something that I must not see, It is in my ears           Something very resonant Bleach To your professorial paucity. Everlasting    passing    apparent    imperceptible The interim Superhuman    apparently Or anything Than a trickle of saliva, I must live in my lantern Forager’s revival, Upon bossed bellies Of an illegal ego’s On your equilibrium Silting the appraisable And Form    a blurr Virginal    to the bellows To my silly shoes, In ways without you Of your street-corner smile, Licking the Arno Prettily miscalculate Tear drops Two or three men    looked only human, But you alone On whom you keep one eye Threading houses Till two tassels clinging together Static Of pubescent consummations Petered out Of my Inviolate in an utter crystallization At the profane communion table Who wore lamp-shade red dresses Heavy with shut-flower’s nightmares To love you most, We might have lived together Only the impact of lighted bodies Tied with a sarsanet ribbon Loy was an important avant-garde poet during WWI. To the casual vulgarity of the merely observant Kissing at gasps      to catch it, Is it true I have got to tell you    and I can’t tell —Sweeping the brood clean out, Midnight empties the street Had something Of a green-lit glow-worm Fantasy dealt them out as gods Don’t let me understand you    Don’t realise me, Or we might tumble together Yet slowly drenched And woolen hair, One bore a baby Into the terrific Nirvana Rot And wills and words all white Sexual equality Or to homophonous hiccoughs Mina Loy is not the poster woman of modernist studies; she is its digital platform. To the right a halœd ascetic And turn into machines, Till the sun Of night, Nothing so conserving Oh that’s right Breed such sons and daughters Interferes with our eyelashes 1 Spawn of Fantasies Sitting the appraisable Pig Cupid His rosy snout Rooting erotic garbage " Once upon a time " Pulls a weed White star-topped Among wild oats Sown in mucous-membrane. And a lullaby on a tin-pan, And    talked till there were no more tongues Of an ego’s necessity Of Experience Rather than watch Or we might make an end of the jostling of aspira­tions Something only for me, Let us be very jealous I would An eye in a Bengal light A  new  illusion, It is ambient               And it is in your eyes To the shallow sound of dissonance Of all but us To the left a boy To you With human throats Etiolate body Constellations in an ocean More of a clock-work mechanism Very conservative Prenatal plagiarism Of fireflies Gender through Tradition in „Prufrock‟ and „Songs to Joannes‟ George Temple (University of Kent) I’m not gonna write you a love song In the 1910s, T.S. “Songs to Joannes, V” was published in Volume 3, Number 6 of Others in April 1917.