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“I don’t think Yeats ever truly modernises his diction…’copulate’ seems fatally technical and euphemistic in this allegedly unbuttoned context. ‘Fucking in the foam’—impossible, unprintable, illegal—would have been a departure, delivered a real shock, had it been available.” (Craig Raine, Areté 52, p. 17).

“the introduction of beetroot, sliced, pickled or otherwise, can never fail to improve a poem.” (Simon Armitage, ibid, p. 112).
In every private sauna
From Kiltartan Cross to Rome
You’ll always find a corner
For fucking in the foam
That is no place for bald men
To fight over a comb
And no country for auld men
To be fucking in the foam
And if the mirror makes me sad
To hear time’s metronome
I’m looking for the face I had
When fucking in the foam
The shower’s made of stainless steel
The taps are made of chrome
A rag-and-bone-shop bath’s ideal
For fucking in the foam
A beetroot, sliced or pickled,
Works wonders for your poem
And so does being tickled
When you’re fucking in the foam
Spread out your cloths! Strike up the band!
The rough beast’s coming home!
The Second Coming is at hand
Now fuck me in the foam

— Guy Mathers

'Arete is a journal as exquisite in its execution as in its intentions.'
John Updike

'Vous m’avez donné un grand plaisir … votre revue m’est très sympathique et proche.'
Milan Kundera