A Memory of the Players in the Mirror at Midnight

They mouth love’s language. Gnash

The thirteen teeth

Your lean jaws grin with. Lash

Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.

Love’s breath in you is stale, worded or sung,

As sour as cat’s breath,

Harsh of tongue.

This grey that stares

Lies not, stark skin and bone.

Leave greasy lips their kissing. None

Will choose her what you see to mouth upon.

Dire hunger holds his hour.

Pluck forth your heart, saltblood, a fruit of tears.

Pluck and devour!

—
James Joyce

Written in Zurich, 1917