Saturday, November 19, 2011

The Feuilleton Lyre

The Feuilleton Lyre

The Feuilleton Lyre

“When I was seventeen,
I fell in love with a sodomite”
—John Tranter, “Rimbaud
in Africa,” Jacket

the feuilleton lyre—
goes on and on about
falling in love with that
young cute french voyant

dazzling blue eyes—
face of an angel, those
hands so big & strong,
dirty nails, innocent smile

when really rimbaud—
was a sullen, insolent
ardennes rough trade
hustler cruising paris

faggy miss verlaine—
fell for the kid and from
then on it was str8t
goodbye, hello miss slut

Night at Café Tabourey

“a kind of luminous
—Charles Nichol
Somebody Else: Arthur
Rimbaud in Africa

was this aperçus—
too much, his glimpse
into verlaine’s wasteland
and the dismal future?

the century of hell—
crummy kitschy new
bourgeoisie world
the feuilleton lyre?

poussin & his friends—
celebrating the holiday
at café tabourey in
november, 1873

pale bitter rimbaud—
sitting there alone
glaring remorsely at
all the other poets


after inventing colors—
for all the vowels A black,
E white, I red, O blue, U green

rimbaud invented senses—
that sooner or later would
recognize rhythms inside him

he alone was translator—
beginning by turning his
colors & senses into words

what was unutterable—
he wrote down, making
sure such worlds stood still

he invented new words—
counteracting bourgeois schmaltz
acquiring supernatural powers

he buried his imagination—
inside his memories & he made
himself an artist & storyteller!

Translating Str8ts

immense & calculated—
derailment of all the str8ts
all forms of bourgeoisie

all breeders and
all the breeding keeping
only the quintessence

unspeakable parodies—
which needs patience as
the poet unmakes himself

a minor criminal—
supreme idiot savant
kitschy bitchiness

he seeks himself—
exhausts himself and
dishes himself

gay to start with—
more than anyone else
subhuman strengths

he barely gets by—
lost meanings of greek
dreams haunt him

he lets himself lisp—
inside himself swishing
to some kind of unknown

it turns out to be—
things unheard of and
simply beyond beyond

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