Rimbaud

Myths of beetles were crawling in the mud,
Noir on red blood,
And the coconuts were jangling to the breezes,
Freezes of autumn
Were flowering by the amygdallic gems
Some sculptor must have carved
By living notes.

There was no sculptor, soul,
O million dreaming wings,
There was no scraper, sole
Travail of constant things.

Travel was life, whether he touched
The blue Floridas or crinkled leaves of fresher hue
Between fine fingers; he gawked
At the rushing avalanche of dreams, flowing up
By the vague eye, or down
With a swift grin, or
Sometimes palaces rising up like placards
Of gold, immense vagaries of emerald, the shining spirit
Of the sun crowning the jewel dripping nard of his locks, but
There were also peaks rising into the air like celestial
Fantasies, phalanxes of purple fallacies, and fragrant
Phalli. He sucked
The tips of roses; the sweetness of scents
Became the ardor of his veins, his heart in flames
Fluttered beautiful fans, and plunged into the breasts
Of high calamities, geographic mirscopicities, and villes
Of vile bouche. Kissing mouths meant nothing to him,
But he moved on, through the blue triumph of sorrows,
Through the raging gold, tunneling under the mountains,
Letting whole hues of grandeur fall into riches,
Until he came to the peak of escape. Some people do whistle
In prayer that the peak of escape is salvation, others
Nothing but grim death, but there are those
Who confront all creation, and slashing the long makeshift
Glasses of baubled urns, the rising bubbled clay
Laughs, laughs at the sunset, the dawning end of day!