D. H. Lawrence - Medlars and Sorb-Apples lyrics

I love you, rotten, Delicious rottenness. I love to s** you out from your skins So brown and soft and coming suave, So morbid, as the Italians say. What a rare, powerful, reminiscent flavour Comes out of your falling through the stages of decay: Stream within stream. Something of the same flavour as Syracusan muscat wine Or vulgar Marsala. Though even the word Marsala will smack of preciosity Soon in the p**y-foot West. What is it? What is it, in the grape turning raisin, In the medlar, in the sorb-apple, Wineskins of brown morbidity, Autumnal excrementa; What is it that reminds us of white gods? Gods nude as blanched nut-kernels, Strangely, half-sinisterly flesh-fragrant As if with sweat, And drenched with mystery. Sorb-apples, medlars with dead crowns. I say, wonderful are the hellish experiences, Orphic, delicate Dionysos of the Underworld. A kiss, and a vivid spasm of farewell, a moment's orgasm of rupture, Then along the damp road alone, till the next turning. And there, a new partner, a new parting, a new unfusing into twain, A new gasp of further isolation, A new intoxication of loneliness, among decaying, frost-cold leaves. Going down the strange lanes of hell, more and more intensely alone, The fibres of the heart parting one after the other And yet the soul continuing, naked-footed, ever more vividly embodied Like a flame blown whiter and whiter In a deeper and deeper darkness, Ever more exquisite, distilled in separation. So, in the strange retorts of medlars and sorb-apples The distilled essence of hell. The exquisite odour of leave-taking. Jamque vale! Orpheus, and the winding, leaf-clogged, silent lanes of hell. Each soul departing with its own isolation. Strangest of all strange companions, And best. Medlars, sorb-apples, More than sweet Flux of autumn s**ed out of your empty bladders And sipped down, perhaps, with a sip of Marsala So that the rambling, sky-dropped grape can add its savour to yours, Orphic farewell, and farewell, and farewell And the ego sum of Dionysos The sono io of perfect drunkenness Intoxication of final loneliness. San Gervasio