"Bank holiday I"
di Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

The houses on a seesaw rush
In the giddy sun's hard spectrum, push
The noisy heat's machinery;
Like flags of colored heat they fly.
The wooden ripples of the smiles
Suck down the houses, then at whiles,
Grown suctioned like an octopus,
They throw them up against us,
As we rush by on coloured bars
Of sense, vibrating flower-hued stars,
With lips like velvet drinks and winds
That bring strange Peris to our minds.