Lord of the Lizards II

Lord of the Lizards
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“There isn’t anyone to help you.
Only me. And I’m the Beast.”
—William Golding, Lord of the Flies

He had a long pink lizard tongue—perfect for cutey-pie cunninglingus. The screamy ones especially—they loved his slithery evil serpentine tongue. At first, anyway—before things got nasty.

There had to be something wrong—with a guy like that. With a tongue a foot long—a forked tongue French tickler that wouldn’t quit. They loved it at first—but then later on they always turned into screamers. When the lights came on…

The Lizard Boy could hold it back for awhile—like a mulatto guy faking it, passing for white. But whores knew the difference—they were paid to be that way. Lots of white guyz were pretty dark down there—prostitutes knew the difference.

But Lizard Boyz were different—they could pass too. But once the lights went out and they got down to having sex—that’s when the Lizard came out & all hell broke loose.

The tongue a sure giveaway, once it got up there inside—or down their throats then there was no stopping it. A lizard has a one-track mind & it isn’t very pretty. Before you know it, you’ve been reamed inside out…

The Lizard Boy got into it—he didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t human anymore, he was a lizard with legs. The Lord of the Lizards spoke thru him, the kid could feel his swollen tongue but it said nothing.

“You’re just a fuck-up piece of shit,” the Lizard Lord said to him. “Just an ignorant Yakuza jerk-off.”

The kid agreed with the Lizard Lord, answering him in the same silent voice. "Well, then,” said the Lord of the Lizards, “you’d better run off and get something to eat. You liked Piggy didn’t you?”

The Lizard Boy tilted his head slightly, his eyes couldn’t break away and the Lord of the Lizards hung in space before him.

“What are you doing out here all alone? Aren’t you the fuck afraid of me?”

The kid shook his head.

“There’s nobody to help you. Only me. And I’m the Lizard Lord.”

The kid’s tongue froze, then he said it.

“Fukushima freak—you created me.”

“What a stupid fuckin thing to say,” the Lord of the Lizards said. “I didn’t create you, you created me!!!” For a moment or two the ruined skyscrapers of Tokyo echoed with the parody of laughter. “You knew that, surely, didn’t you? You’re a part of me and I’m a part of you. The DNA mad scientists did us both in, you child-idiot. I’m the reason why it’s no go. And you’re the reason why things are what they are…”

The skyscrapers shivered again. The ghosts of dead scientists were laughing. It was all so sick.

“Go on, get back with the rest.”

The kid’s head wobbled & weaved. His eyes were half closed, knowing the obscene thing he was. The pig on the stick in Lord of the Flies—was now the pig between his legs in Lord of the Lizards.

“You poor thing. Do you really think you know better than I do? Go ahead and be who you are, misguided spawn of monkey-brained child idiots!”

The kid was falling—down inside a mouth. A slithery serpent tongue was wrapped around his ankle, pulling him down into darkness. He lost consciousness…

Paul Bowles

Paul Bowles
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“I personally
am content to see
everything in the
process of decay”
—Paul Bowles,
Pages from Cold Point

Djami

Rimbaud is ambivalent and sarcastic, cynical
verging on macabre. His attitude of non-involvement
as silent observer, even a calculating opportunist with a SM demonic streak. After Verlaine and the Parnassians can one blame him?

Tarominaesque

Newly discovered photos take by Rimbaud tell us more than maybe the Parnassians would have liked to know about being an exiled gay voyant. Rimbaud buys a Leica in Tangiers for his new picturesque poetry. Wilhelm von Gloeden had some Rimbaud prints in his library that survived.

Zeiss Ikon

Later a Zeiss Ikon starts capturing Djami on the Palais Jami Hotel rooftop. Djami’s primitiveness which Rimbaud always tried to preserve was a power which magnetized Rimbaud submerged the civilization he hated in Europe, releasing him into the archaic.

Perfect Backwardness

A force so potent that he fell prey to being obsessed with Djami, a boy of the most perfect backwardness exciting in his purity. Living proof that one can return to one’s archaic beginnings. Djami was Rimbaud’s passport back into time and the omnipresent desert.

Young Djami

Djami was sixteen when Rimbaud met him, handsome & olive-skinned. A strong body with big hands like Rimbaud, a face with a broken nose. His goodlooks linked him back to colonial times, Morocco & early Italy. He dressed traditionally—baggy white trousers and chandrisi plus woolen djellaba over his naked skin, and flat stomach under his cloak.

Arcadian Touch

The small prints that Rimbaud had made of Djami back then evoked nostalgia with their sepia and faded edges, zigzag cut. The relationships between westerners and moroccan youth, tales of initiation, libidinous codes meeting, connecting, creating…

Sick Illuminations

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Djami

Djami

“You go with a mind—
darkened by the image
of a happiness that for
you must be immediate”
—Paul Verlaine
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Djami’s dance & voice—not fixed, not forced. Becoming his other. His ancient crowds—and their idle wealth recuperated him. This dancing boy—returns him to himself, his body undoes him. Djami's voice becomes—Rimbaud's voice desiring him, finding himself again. La danse et la voix—so discreetly fraternal, reinventing love. Adieux Parnassians—adieux Zutique. He'd sought thru zutique an unlooked-for logic, foiling the telling—the usual life-story, getting rid of its narrative. Jeunesse parodies—the surreal detailing of a new biography. Abrupt imagination—silencing the poet with “poetique du fragment.” The other Orpheus—notes, fragments. Incomplete, scattered disjointed illuminations. Leapfrogging becoming—simultaneously subversive via “incoherence harmonique.” A perverted sense—tres gay antinarrativity undoing himself adroitly. Undermining closure homoerotically, eroding str8t claustrophobia. Sweeping aside—humdrum hetero clichés opening operatic breaches. "Nocturne Vulgaire"—hearse of his sleep. Veering off the highway, to the airport of his inanity. A slight defect—right-hand windowpane, revolving lunar pricks. Sodomite slippage—stylish erotic innuendo, tongue-tip up his anus. Pivoting patriarchal—inviting allegorical readings, homosexual prose-poems, eclipsing bay windows—paratactically segueing scenes, dreams, story.

Djami

DJAMI

A young man—Djami. Smiling radiant eyes, endowed with “animal eroticism.” Is that the word for it? Moving toward—the limits of being invisible. Becoming animal—becoming scorpion, becoming serpent? How did he write—how did he flee writing? Escape from himself? Stammering—making language stammer, rather than just speech? Writing— writing in a language not of his own tongue? Traveling—traveling across the desert toward what? For Rimbaud—the desert was his illumination novel? Rimbaud writing—a calligraphy of his sad solitude, escaping the Parnassus pricks back in Paris. Writing “and then”—rather than “because." Writing tres “in between”?

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?

Miss Thing

L'enfant Terrible
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“Keeping the visionary and the orphic aspects of “The Drunken Boat” but expressing them in short lines.”—Edmund White, Rimbaud: The Double Life of a Rebel
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Deep blue eyes—big hands, big feet, sullen, sulky kid. More anti-social—than timid, “notorious murderer” Miss Goncourt said. All the parnassians—hated him but craved his corrupted muse. Ditching alexandrines—alienating Miss Banville, sneering at tradition, redoing Miss Baudelaire—in her orphic urban drag. Calmer, cooler, sublime lyric compressed—intricate visualizations plunging poetry deeper.
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“Critics often claim that creative sparks fly when the themes and techniques of genre literature get elevated to high art.”—Edmund White, Rimbaud: The Double Life of a Rebel

Deeper into feuilleton—beyond merely anecdotal, elevated into high art. Only Miss Verlaine seemed—to like the vile, vicious, disgusting, smutty kid. Only savage young Rimbaud—encouraged Verlaine to write like a gay seer. Arthur rimbaud was—an infant french prodigy, a modern performance artist already. Rimbaud was chicken deluxe—a dominant adolescent who was homoerotically ready, A young gay seer—striking Baudelaire’s pose without bourgeois drag. A young voyant—rather than eccentric gay bohemian Parnassian queen.

Asshole Sonnet

“Verlaine was weak
in everything, except
poetic talent.”
—Edmund Lepelletier
Rimbaud: A Double Life

it’s alive—
it breathes, lurking
in smutty darkness

it pouts—
it puckers, insolent
bourgeois bunghole

it weeps—
pale white buttocks
pierced by pride

it sobs—
a swamp of tears
in queer quicksand
__________________

it squeezes—
milking heavenly
flutes of candy

soon hash and—
absinthe is busy
loosening it up

rimbaud ending up—
with 19-year-old witty
mocking parisian kid

jean-louis forain—
“gavroche” the scamp
ex-communard

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“You’re unlucky—possessed by strange disquieting innocence,” Miss Verlaine says. Pitiful Verlaine—the frightful nights Rimbaud owned her. He would jeer at her—losing himself in nocturnal extravagances to come. He would lie down—let her mouth make love to him sorrowfully. They was at last ready to return to primitive poetry. They had the place—and the formula to be voyant. Rimbaud’s bad luck—consumes him, all his hunger and lust. He cultivates it, he wants bad luck—to nourish him but he has no illusion. He can’t laugh—at anything anymore, bad luck won’t let him. Living as a poet—is more a “project” than a set of strategies. Living as a poet—is different than just living tout court. Living as a poet—is subject to satire fag feuilleton-esque. Fiction depends on—telling stories, details, mimetic dialog, but prose poetry is—a monologue placed in between the two. The foolish virgin—speaking, inventing her season in hell.

The Spiritual Hunt
(La Chasse Spirituelle)

it was a stunt—
they’d been plotting
it for simply months

getting back again—
staging a fag farce
a temporary ruse

obscene and sexual—
the letters between both
lovers simply shocking!

poor mathilde—
she wasn’t ready for
marriage as a sham

princess mouse—
miserable carrot fairy
bedbug waiting for a pot

verlaine without emotion—
everything a melodrama
comedy & gallows humor

London: shape of the future—London as both warning & promise of things to come. Rather amazing how—London society back then was like America today. Exiled communards left over from the Commune—rejecting Verlaine and Rimbaud, their gay marriage. Bourgeoisie right—rejecting gay poets as well, those shameless corrupt outlaws. Both left and right—bourgeoisie fearing queers as filthy vice destroying society. As if society needed any help with that, this the great future—people were proclaiming, Rimbaud was worshipping?

“I’m doing some little stories in prose: Pagan Book or Negro Book.” My fate depends—on this book, full of domestic atrocities. More than confessions—it’s pulp fiction poetry, revealing my vices. No ploy, no dialog—narrative half-erased, gay characters ruining a writer without—descriptive or didactic powers, a damned poet full of bad blood like me—someone too instinctive, too savage, too gay. A half-heard dialog—a series of muted lips, some str8t reproaches.If only some of my—ancestors were gay poets, but no, there’s nothing. I'm unable to revolt—or intuit an inferior race, my queer bad blood flows like absinthe. My stra8t dayz are over—good riddance, I'm leaving Europe for good, I’ll be practical & brutal, a gun-runner, a merchant, a trader.
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Of course, Rimbaud—doesn’t leave right away. First Season & Illumination, two books written simultaneously, back to back exploring two opposing warring genres . A a season in hell—mock-confessional, camp, retrospectively queenly. Illuminations—cool, calm, futuristic queerly queenly dystopian desert journey. Infernal bridegroom—putting words in Verlaine’s foolish virgin mouth. He beats her, inflicts—agonies, fears, anxieties, indelicately seducing the daemon, the devil—he’s not himself, you know, a badboy angel in disguise. These rude broad strokes—one sentence against the next, the actual words of lovers. Rimbaud tells Verlaine—love must be reinvented beyond str8t desire. The virgin bride opines—the infernal bridegroom, a blowhard of hot air.