Dark, puckered hole: a purple carnation
That trembles, nestled among the moss
the wet of love still covering the gentle curvation
Of the white ass, just to the royal eyelet.

Threads resembling milky tears there are spun;
Spray forced back by the south wind's cruel threat
Across the small balls of brown shit has run,
To drip from the crack, which craves for it yet.

Not wishing the prick to have its bent,
My mouth too has often mated with that vent,
My sobbing tongue tried to devour the rose

Flowering in brown moisture. The chute unmanned,
It's a heavenly jam-pot, the Promised Land
Which with other milk and honey overflows!

Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, ca. 1871
(Transl. J. Murat and W. Gunn)