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 smoke of something else, in the burning of which, and in the exact words, briefly, somehow, tho twisted, a failing barometer of intent. In just so many words, Rimbaud’s point takes no space at all. Time left unspent in generation.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
Comments