“You did well to leave, Arthur Rimbaud!
… You were right to abandon the boulevard
of the lazybones, the taverns of pisse-lyres …
for the commerce of the cunning…”
René Char
Still in clothes they cloud themselves
like the women of the bygone past:
but would you say with me—how
but few still have a musician’s gift
to tell apart a fine and clear measure
from the fausses notes & which of them
one should or shouldn’t want to hitch?
Or is it because wholly line by line
that grew like well-off woman’s shopping list
poesy turned (after good old baroque clouds)
angels into maudits Cupidons et putti gras
que Saturne, « le Père », ne laisse pas dépasser
sa faux—then with no Heaven above or within
doomed to shrink—into Jimmy Riddle’s piss?
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