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...
poems, fireflies...