Power Return

Rimbaud has received me,
and I rock his drunken boat. A fever
frothing both his mouth and mine,
each glitter phosphorous, sublime
kamikaze believer.
His archipelagos
in the stars
now wet with perspiration of dry
summer sucking stones,
open woes.

He welcomes me in my madness,
assures me I am nothing but
sheer speechless vision,
pale flier of raw bone.

                            The poet
makes himself seer by a long
prodigious and rational disordering
of the senses. Every form of love,
of suffering, of madness, he searches
himself, he consumes all the poisons
within him, keeping only
their quintessences...

I nod gently on this wine,
chewing on the tettered ends
his long-snapped kept bargeline
reveals, aged like finer cheese,
mankind's more
pretentious
pleas.

[ 1984, Washington, DC ]

© 1984 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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