Baudelaire sits on a rooftop and names a cloud Chantez. So organized, the brisk tonnage of water vapour performs a momentary interruption of quiet. Baudelaire shows his teeth, calls it a smile.
Rimbaud dumps recalcitrant letters in blue ink on whitish paper. His skill becomes a deadly verbal puttering among locus, colours, showdown, and strait. We laughed at inception, but then we stuttered.
Verlaine’s laughable mansard roof barely covers the locution. Can you be more specific or spoiled, Sir? Your tax rate is only special for a moment.
Everything French has been done.
Lorine Niedecker took hold of the boy. Torque. Celia was often Louis, Louis was Paul. Clouds as big as explaining doddered to an afternoon. The stagnant lake learns to burp.