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, colours and tones. He saw vowels, naked and assured thru the welter of Nile power. One could insist on dreaming of a buttress of Sphinxes, crouched thru the long years of a young night. Arthur Rimbaud in extreme vitriol and smack wrote grace as a serving spoon and built the projected maze of Poetry’s grounding, or so fustion can assert. What the Pharoahs will learn from Rimbaud may never be clarified. Language has its boundaries to exceed, where music cannot go. Flood as a serving idea shall not break. Arthur Rimbaud begins in a moment.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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