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
ordinariness”
—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
Vowels
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
______________
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
ordinariness”
—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
Vowels
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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