Simple Theories

 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 ...