Arthur Cravan, Weight-lifter (1916)

 

I found a corner in a First Class compartment and made myself comfortable. That is to say I let down my guard and stretched out my legs in the most casual manner in the world. 

And under my lobster skull I juggled my World Champion's orbs

So as to survey the crowd, assembled almost by accident,

When I spotted a gent, an apothecary or a solicitor,

Who smelled like a janitor or a pelican.

Ha! Ha! This I liked: his proclivities

Revealed themselves much as they do with a herbivore,

While his head reminded me quite strongly 

Of the time when I used to curl up for the night beside my dumb-bell,

And, I'm bound to say, with a sort of real adoration

Not to mention something difficult to explain

In the presence of the polished egoist

Whom I bottled with my Atlantic eyes,

I worshipped his forearm as a sacred dish

And compared his stomach to the attraction of shops.

Tickets, please! 

"Property-owners are termites," I exclaimed suddenly.

And while allophagous

In the glow of your loving,

Our tangled 

Waistcoats entwine,

My darling cauliflower,

I follow your vast range

And your colours,

And in an amalgam

Of Jack Johnson, elephant-seal and wardrobe

Our turds glisten like watered silk.

Fuck-fuck! The beat

 Of the breeches

In the final 

Abdominal

Spasm! 

I'll say it again at the risk of getting myself locked up: by the beard of the nanny-goat and the whiskers of the she-rat, property-owners are ter-mites! 

What do it mean?

How much did he curl compared to some kidney-ruined, heart-enlarged train wreck of a one-dimensional human in current times?