Friday, November 11, 2011

Miss Thing

“narrowing the gap between experience
and expression”—Graham Robb,
“Philomath,” Rimbaud: A Biography

And so Miss Thing—began refusing to embrace any ready-made moralities. For Miss Thing—the seer had become a sightseer. It was all so terribly philomathique—a bored traveler's feverish desires substituting for poetic imagination. And so, Miss Thing became—a regular thug for risque rugged reality.
"Emanations & Ejaculations: Rimbaud’s Poetic & Spiritual Testament” by André Breton. Poetry is like Roquefort—the green mold on a dirty boy’s cheesy dickhead. Rimbaud is Gruyére—tart smelly smegma beneath the kid's sullen foreskin. It's the ultimate—divine fondue, my dears, going so well with caviar, champagne. It's simply the divine—the most exquisite appetizer... and then the young moody thug's main course. Miss Thing has always associated genius with stink. Bad smells and sly fermentation, fuzzy love-making and all that. For Miss Thing—poetry cultivates shameless derangement of the senses—deliberately filthy intoxications, smelly deviants—pretty profligate parasites

Café du Rat Mort “Don’t feed—she bites”—Jean-Louis Forain. Miss Rimbaud pees on poetry rather than keep step with the miserable Parnassian queens. Miss Forain copies Rembrandt all afternoons at the Louvre but Rimbaud like Cézanne & Picasso later, studies and copies Forain's idiotic pictures—fairground backdrops, theater sets, posters, ads.

Teen Hercules “nuits d’Hercules”—Paul Verlaine makes out with a cute teen Hercules—nude captive in drag Rue Campagne-Premiére kid who's busy deflowering Miss Verlaine's fifty filthy drunken Thespius lips as the absinthe flows—over the Alexandrine ruins, what’s to be done? Ardennes farmboys—they're not bashful or shy spluging down Miss Verlaine's famished gullet.

Vagabonds “pitiful brother”—Arthur Rimbaud, “Vagabonds,” Illuminations. Impatient to—find the place and the formula, knowing that—“I” is just another word for a cute teenage hustler "other." Just a mere—phantom of some perverted Parisian nocturnal emission? How to restore—this primitive state of the inner self?

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