Take next the Backs alone — take all that stares
Backwards out over the Nothing of past years —
That is a shut-book — limit — nothing else.
We are all composed half of these darkling shells —
(Since but half-minted only, since half's left
Vacant, as if to betray our sketchy weft).
What are the Backs of you and me, brother, but this
Half-finished and one-sided chrysalis?
All, there, is That-away-from-which-man-turns ,
There all is nothing but That-to-which-nothing-returns!
No toes stick out to invite us to run back

Sex is of the same clay as Time! — of the same clay
Since both are in their essence but One-Way
Time is the one-way dimension: sex its tart
And subtle biological counterpart.
But even Sex is Time, too, in a sense —
That chronologic burgeoning of men's.
Is it not the sex-magnet eyeless that gives
That one-way motion to a thing that lives —
That makes us say it is alive and kicks,
Not to be classed with things, but active, full of tricks —
Which drives it on at its sex-opposite,
At rest when in contact, if it's a glove-tight-fit,

So the Back-to-the-engine image is impressed! —
Are there not men convinced they are at rest
Because their breasts are where their backs should be,
Poor ostriches of Temporality! —
Occulted backwards , where the bird occults
Downwards his stupid head? The same results —
To be neck-deep in Nothing, abolish sight,
Is just the same whichever way you hide!
Whether you get behind your back, or sink
Beneath a horizontal covering,
That is all one: your Front is the Frontier
Of two dimensions, as it were earth and air.

Revolt against these chronologic laws,
That would be madness, lunacy of course.
(What next! to go to Bedlam for your bottom,
Or have your neighbours stutter out " he's got 'em"!)
Swag up the Back where the bold Front should stand —
Propose to reverse the dribble of Time's sand.
It will be borne in upon you promptly how
You cannot play with Time the bull and cow,
Cannot blow hot and cold, or pick and choose,
Or toss for heads and tails — you must always lose:
You are the tail, you cannot be the head,
We One-ways are to one-side limited! —

To go far wrong I don't see how you can,
I don't indeed, my little One-way man!
Yet, naturally, it is an artificial thing
To be the sort of One-way that I sing.
You can't help that. From time to time you get
That feeling that you're only half-there. Yet
What is the odds, as I remarked just now?
To be even half-there's not such a bad wow!
That " gorgeous" sense of being actual
In Front , that's worth a lot. In front you're real.
No one can take that from you. Be a FRONT,
A bold unblushing Frontispiece — a blunt,

Take it from me my One-Way brother — frere
Semblable! (to link up with Baudelaire)
That " pectus est quod facit" us , in sum,
Your Front, what makes you , makes " theologum":
Your God's forever there under your nose,
His attributes are counted on your toes!
And what's the odds if now and then you feel
A bit mechanical and not quite " real"?
It's of no consequence. You can't go wrong
If you take to heart my present ONE-WAY SONG —
Commit it to memory — at least read out loud
And memorize a goodish snatch, to shout

A portentous start — to take a snapshot aim
At Backs in the abstract — but you see my game —
To shoot off all the epaulettes and bustles,
To flatten out the controversial muscles
Which hint at four-armed fool-gods of the Hindu,
Furnished with dorsal duplicates for the two
Front-handed members, a peg-top of a person.
So kindly overlook my rude aspersion —
No by-your-leave as an " Eyes-front" contraption
To salute your honour — " One-Way" is my caption,
For better or for worse. I am the song bird
Of the dogmatic one-way Front-Man. I exert

Are you young Master One-Way? Are you he!
Are you that sad identical young she,
Who is all onewaywardness, who to be salt
On Sodomitic cliffs may yet be called,
Who knows? but if that's the case I'll bet you're salted
For never looking back — from very goaheadness halted. —
Are you Miss Time-girl? — Master Clock I think!
" Habe die Ehre!" How we One-ways stink
Of progress! I could tell you by your smell!
The effluvium of progress suits you well
Allow me to say sir! (to the perfume born
Of an " expanding universe", a bursting corn —

Oh to be One-way — yet to be said to look
" Before and after"! What bat was it mistook
The ancestral coccyx for a periscope —
Who was it handed out that two-way dope?
(Oh blast his eyes who took my tail to be
A spy-glass, or supposed my back could see.
That two-way stuff's in the worst taste. What's more
It saddened Shelley. I prefer Old Moore.)
DORSUM's our password, with six-foot of wall
Twixt us and pastness — a Humpty Dumpty fall
For little you or me, if we should use
Our backs for peeping-tomming Goodie Two Shoes

Try and walk backwards: you will quickly see
How you were meant only one-way to be!
Attempt to gaze out of your bricked-up back:
You will soon discover what we One-ways lack!
Endeavour to re-occupy the Past:
Your stubborn front will force you to stand fast!
(No traffic-caption of Sens Interdit
Is necessary for this clearly One-Way Street.)
Address yourself to sitting down front-first —
Your joints will stop you, or your hips will burst!
Try and read backwards out of any book —
Essay to take a walk eyes-shut and not to look —