MY PALEST VARIATIONS
Rimbaud and Verlaine, the Buggery Brothers,
still bother me like snot. Two atrocious
characters wrapped up in mythmaking and
romance - the same dour surge that makes
pus run or blood trickle. Young romantic
children of today - every Patti Smith and
Bob Dylan of the configured world - can
still run out of their way to praise the
effrontery of these two characterless swans.
-
I'd hate to be around their table.
Flamboyant blowhards, flaming pistols,
running hordes and overly-sensitive puffs
crowd it from end to end. Servings of
pink potatoes and purple jellies would be
their fare. Why do we listen? Why do we care?
-
Up high, the height of Gods, up high, the Heavens
of all the worlds - that's where the true poet's
mind dwells. Not in devilment, not in Hells.
Oh, why do we even bother?
Rimbaud and Verlaine, the Buggery Brothers,
still bother me like snot. Two atrocious
characters wrapped up in mythmaking and
romance - the same dour surge that makes
pus run or blood trickle. Young romantic
children of today - every Patti Smith and
Bob Dylan of the configured world - can
still run out of their way to praise the
effrontery of these two characterless swans.
-
I'd hate to be around their table.
Flamboyant blowhards, flaming pistols,
running hordes and overly-sensitive puffs
crowd it from end to end. Servings of
pink potatoes and purple jellies would be
their fare. Why do we listen? Why do we care?
-
Up high, the height of Gods, up high, the Heavens
of all the worlds - that's where the true poet's
mind dwells. Not in devilment, not in Hells.
Oh, why do we even bother?
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