Interview with Rimbaud

Interview with Rimbaud
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[“Oh, look! She’s palming!”—James Merrill]
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the room breathes—
queer white lace curtains
fluttering thru windows
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[Backdrop. The dining room at Stonington.]
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“I miss those times—
with young Rimbaud…
the devil boy’s jizzy
jet oozing thru me
like the great god Pan!”
—Paul Verlaine
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miss verlaine—
parnassian pimp
of the avant garde

one of the queens—
the wilde boyz back
then in gay paris

gautier’s salon—
contemporary parnassus
art for art’s sake

poets serving—
only the Beautiful
the rest is ugly
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you disgust me—
i’m full of revulsion
fidgety, flummoxed

rimbaud’s mildewed—
mouth sticks out its
tongue, smirks

a thousand pale—
male angels vanish
down the road

arthur disappears thru—
france, miss verlaine
chases behind him
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“He was, I think, a homosexual”—Izambard
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izambard—
that zanzibar snake
in eden’s garden

that’s what—
rimbaud’s mother
thought about him

exposing arthur
her precocious child
to evil Literature
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[“I is another person.”—Arthur Rimbaud]
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signaling other poets—
baudelaire’s “les phares”
down thru the ages

like lighthouses—
blinking to each other
in the vast darkness

antique teenage—
riot of cupid boyz
young male voyants

timorous queens—
olympian ganymedes
the usual trade
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[“Someone who can jot down virtually anything that he senses, detects and perceives”—Edmund White]
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rimbaud’s nostalgia—
for filth, learning it
from baudelaire

izambard’s aunts—
rimbaud nude in douai
the ladies charmed by him

silence as they groom—
the drowsy boy’s pubes
crushing his precious lice
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rimbaud is sitting—
in the muse out-house
shitty boy gargoyle

looming over paris—
even tho still here in his
quaint ardennes hometown

out of his gloom—
grotesque haunting
artesian forces forming
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naked in bed—
busy feeling up his
teenage dark angel

sucks him off—
shiny bald head and
whiskers that tickle

the bedroom door—
is locked even tho his
poor wife wants in

she pouts her lips—
fitfully letting verlaine
fondle rimbaud’s huge cock
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at the green cabaret—
under the green table
absinthe gets its way

verlaine down there—
rimbaud letting him do it
french kiss him…slowly

a spider crawls up—
his muscular hard leg
after miles of walking

vagabondage boy—
his sandals with wings
his comings & goings
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the pleasures of art—
daydreaming, masturbation
lots of smoking hashish

venus androgyne—
goddess of love with
a body that won’t quit

moody commune boy—
parisian revolutionary
a boil on his butt
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Tortured Lips
—for Arthur Rimbaud

My sad lips drool—
Soaked in tobacco spit
Slimy with cum

The spit streams—
Drools from my lips
I’m a cocksucker now

Out of the closet—
Insultingly degrading
I know the truth now

I like soldiers’ pricks—
I love to give blowjobs
To butchy young soldiers
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I know it sounds—
Dirty and disgusting but
Marital cum excites me

Have you ever tasted—
How thick and virile young
Men’s bayonets can be?

Sweet and thick—
Stripped of their uniforms
Truant tobacco juice?

Not up the bunghole—
It hurts much too much
My lips are more girl-like…
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After a blowjob—
I’m somebody else
It’s quite obvious to me

Explosions of thought—
Excruciating ejaculations
Both the same thing

Let str8t poets write—
Denounce our faggotry
Dominate academe

Let bourgeois writers—
Opine about pussy and
Worship their whatever
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Meanwhile

meanwhile queer writers—
wilde boy young poets
performing today

tell me, have these sorts—
of fags ever existed this
way before, my dears?

without supernatural—
lucidities, falsely elegant
baudelaire artsy drag

they follow rimbaud—
these little love birds
gay contessa boyz
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sheer mendacity—
maudlin mountebanks
homoerotic fairytales

queer soap operas—
miserable miracles
true confessions

gay pulp fiction—
queen for day comics
marlene cabaret drag
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“When he wanted to court someone, he couldn’t help but offend”—Edmund White
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Vowels

A noir—
inventing a dinge
queen poetics

E blanc—
priding myself in
being white-trash

I rouge—
baton rouge drag
coming outta the closet

O bleu—
singing the blues—
big easy cocksucker

O vert—
down by the levee
hot cane-field lover
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lovely calla lilies—
enemas of ecstasy
young hustler excrement

then came verlaine—
trailing tulips from her
tragic absinthe thighs

fascinated by the—
intensely emerald
sugar cute green fairy

aperitifs after five—
at the café de gaz
a parnassian lush
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a tortured queen—
both clown & undertaker
brutal husband, wrench

frequenting salons—
remembering ancient
fake watteau ecstasies

ineffable happiness—
blue skies remembered
false ardor and lies