Perchance last night you felt the world careen, Leap in its orbit like a punished pup Which hath a hornet on his burning bean? Last night, last night -- historic yestere'en! -- Hermione's Salon was opened up! II Without, the night was cold. But Thought, within, Roared through the rooms as red and hot as Sin. Without, the night was calm; within, the surge And snap of Thought kept up a crackling din As if in sport the well-known Cosmic Urge with Psychic Slapsticks whacked the dome and Shin Of Swami, Serious Thinker, Ghost and Goat. From soup to nuts, from Nut to Super Freak, From clams to coffee, all the Clans were there. The groggy Soul Mate groping for its Twin, The burgling free verse Blear, the Hobo Pote, Clairvoyant, Cubist bug and Burlapped Greek, Souse Socialists and queens with bright green hair, Ginks leading barbered Art Dogs trimmed and Sleek, The Greenwich Stable Dwellers, Mule and Mare, Pal Anarchs, tamed and wrapped in evening duds, Philosophers who go wherever suds Flow free, musicians hunting after eats, And sandaled dames who hang from either ear Strange lumps -- "art jools" -- the size of pickled beets, Writers that write not, hunting Atmosphere, Painters and sculptors that ne'er paint nor sculp, Reformers taking notes on Brainstorm Slum, Cave Men in Windsor Ties, all gauche and glum, With strong iron jaws that crush their food to Pulp, And bright Boy Cynics playing paradox, And th' inevitable She that knitteth Belgian socks -- A score of little groups ! -- all bees that hum About the futile blooms of Piffledom. III A wan Erotic Rotter told me that The World could not be Saved except through Sin; A she eugenist, sexless, flabby, fat, With burst veins winding through unhealthy skin, With loose, uncertain lips preached Purity; A Preacher blasphemed just to show he dared; A dame praised Unconventionality In words her secretary had prepared; A bare-legg'd painter garbed in Leopard hide Quarreled with a Chinese lyre and scared the dogs; A slithering Dancer slunk from side to side In weird, ungodly, Oriental togs; A pale, anemic, frail Divinity Confided that she thought the great Blond Beast Himself was Art's own true Affinity; An Anarch gloomed; "The Mummy at the Feast Gets all the pleasure from the festive board!" I know not what they meant; I only wunk Within myself, and praised the great god Bunk. A Yogi sought the Silences and snored. IV