Simple Theories

  Michel de Montaigne (established 1533) spoke to the wood of his desk (le mot "desk" en Français se traduit par "bureau") because structure depends on craziness as a basic element  Sun (a satchel) produces reflection of sun and sum  all that remains here just will appear  boring poems make anatomy lessons   

  Rimbaud moved past Elysium to the third floor. He considered Michel de Montaigne’s beard a complete waste of time. New World jungle Rimbaud flicked a gesture of unresistence, promulgated by the surety of bad habits. Pressing words forward like tribes, and therefore filtering, Montaigne sits at his desk. He holds a pen, minutes screw tighter, ideas in words spring. Rimbaud settles to this thought, his head in one place and not elsewhere. A picture of Rimbaud looks like an evasive clock.

 In the recovery stage, vowels will need immediate recolouring, seers will seem. History shall gather to the table edge. One will see by not exactly seeing, like every human plant. In time, one and all will find display, on tickets of electron thru a nuclear process. Popes and Pharoahs will finally die by blending into present monied splendour. From space, quasar will mark the beat, breathless observers will sigh. High above the edge a new edge will be born. Absinthe will have to do more dirty work, more acrostics. Morphemes and phonemes will require a hard look, the oceans will fade All this trouble will be rewarded by all that trouble, once the trouble has been shot. So again the Commune rises, garnished with radical in the square root sort of sound off. What impression a green leaf leaves in musical diligence will produce positive charge. We gather by sort and blend, on this actal day, on this matter day. Anyway, history, or what’s left of it. You can imagine Paul Verlaine’s sub...

  Rimbaud stood upon  un balcon , assessing the febrile allocation of human space below. No metaphors survive, only the priceless squawk of Verlaine (Paul), in the rough hands of intoxication. Rimbaud may not even have seen the words, the passing traumas, the skulking vocabulary lading the streets below.  Squalour  remains the verbal remnant of the royal unleashing. Colours defray the cost of straining language, as if such noise could be heard or listened to. The Seine or any other cousin of the Nile invites comparison to shit,  merde , the remaining afterhours onus. Nothing in the world weighs more than preposition, and logically nothing can. Word by word Rimbaud takes an earnest flight of  poésie , the glockenspiel of romance. The skidding impact and downright crack restoreth nothing in long vivid rapping of pen strokes on paper. On paper, Verlaine proved a great poet, forsooth, trim cadence. Rimbaud turned. The thing,  le mot  , remains as the ...

  In Egypt, with plenty of Pharaohs fitfully thru time, Arthur Rimbaud arrived, born on the intoxicating floods of the Nile River. As a famous river, the Nile could feed young Arthur properly, with ideas of flooded landscapes and taxonomies of timeless reputations. Deities of a florid sort would suggest sudden moments, and Arthur would react with crash and aplomb. He was a spirit and his was a spirit, et cetera. In the few years of its existence, the Nile has taken on incredible feasance. So much insistence on somewhere, to the lowest level. Arthur could only be taken. It seems like a vast effort, with remarkable power, yet vindication is near. Thus Arthur saw the world, Arthur Rimbaud, with the rapturous waters performing as his eyes. The buoyant Pharaohs, rooted so heavily in the sands of time, and the marshes thereof, drew gods and goddesses as witnesses to wild words and sandstone. Wind filled the space between actions, and Arthur’s words formed airy islands and earmarks, colou...

  Rimbaud stood propped against the ice as would be expected. Blue as peace time refrigerators, yet still warm to the touch. He had corsairs in mind, with the courage of abutments. Pressured to succeed further than beyond the most word eye, live until dead, so they say. And the slave trade slave trade slave trade, a ratiocination of perplexity for a mind seeking vowels and colours athwart world impatience and time situated outside of time, inside deluge. And thus finally thus purls of explanation settle in. And we think about code.