A FAKE NOVEL ABOUT THE LIFE OF JACK SPICER

A FAKE NOVEL ABOUT
THE LIFE OF JACK SPICER
__________________

“my vocabulary
did this to me”
—Jack Spicer

The sentences—continuously trying
To turn Jack Spicer—into Arthur Rimbaud
Thinking of new strategies—to make him
Go against—the American grain

Arthur Rimbaud—didn’t write
The sullen kid—was written
We sentences—were waiting for them
Both Arthur & Jack—a couple of suckers

It didn’t take long—to queer them both
Like most poets—they were pretty easy marks
When both Rimbaud—and Spicer suffered
That’s when New Literature—was born

Rimbaud was sixteen—and a love object
Miss Verlaine covered him—with thousands
Of obscene kisses—from his pouty lips
All the way down—to his pouty big penis

He was just a naive—Ardennes farm boy
Aggressive & cute—definitely a sure winner
His boyish good looks—his baby blue eyes
And best yet—he had a huge 10-inch dick

Naturally Miss Verlaine—a rabid chicken queen
Fell for the kid—unwinkingly head over heels
Dumping his mousy Wife—quitting his job
Simply blinded by—the kid’s savage good looks

We sentences are—sort of witchdoctors
A Cult of magic syntax—and semenantics
We love to party—and do the down-low
Especially with young—impetuous poets

We sentences—had big plans for Rimbaud
We loved it when—he got loaded & fainted
Jacking him off—all the way down from
Slutty Lane Dullsville—to trees gay Paris

We wanted to proclaim—a New Age
We were eager—for young Rimbaud to write
Wharf rats running—along the Meuse
Soon were crawling—inside his skull

Sentences are dead—we’re not alive
Even bestsellers—end up rotting on shelves
We needed a totally new—Political Novel
French politics & culture—had grown stale

And so a new kid—got born in Charleville
A moody sulky boy—an Ardennes prick
R=I=M=B=A=U=D was his new Name
Paris rumors—started spreading immediately

Big gnarly hands—like a hoodlum killer
Big feet wearing out—his big black boots
One look & Miss Verlaine—almost fainted
While all the Parnassians—simply panicked

Constantly running away—from his home
He got what he deserved—in the barracks
The soldiers butt-fucked—his virgin asshole
Out of spite—he wrote a poem about it

His “Bateau ivre” poem—a Misadventure
Soon he was ghost-writing—our Novel
As Miss Verlaine’s—Internal Bridegroom
His Delirious Homo—Marriage in Hell!!!

All our Queer—Literary critics in Hades
Gave rave reviews—for Rimbaud’s work
His “long awaited” classic—“Illuminations”
Was soon on our—Top Ten Bestsellers List

But even the best plans—of mice & muses
Can fall apart—and sink down into the Meuse
Or disappear, my dears—in the foggy Thames
Drunk Verlaine—tried to shoot Rimbaud

If she couldn’t—have the young stud
Then nobody else—would get him either
She aimed her pistol—down where it hurts
Took a potshot—at Rimbaud’s crotch

Luckily Rimbaud—protected himself
Covering his groin—with his hand
The bullet penetrated—the kid’s wrist
The young voyant’s penis—was saved

We all breathed—a sigh of relief
We’d picked the—wrong Sugar Daddy
For our young—Rimbaud wunderkind
He fled to Africa—can you blame him?

A defeat for us—and a question mark
The Word puts on Flesh—a Teenager
A sixteen year old—chicken Voyant
Undoubtedly a—young French genius

He left behind—many blank books
We Ghost-writers—left in a Lurch
We’d written him—a blank check
We only got—two books outta him

Off into the desert—Rimbaud went
Our young Poet—into the Unknown
He lived with his Arab lover Djami
He could’ve created—a New World

These gone Literary—Histories
Glutting the streets—far down below
Rimbaud left—just enough poetry
For us—to taste the Prize

Poor cursed—Miss Verlaine
Had to live—the rest of her Life
In The Shadow—of her young lover
Her taste just as—bitter as ours

We tried—once again in SF
Picking Jack Spicer—as Rimbaud’s
Studious talented—heir apparent
How his flame burned—So brightly