Rimbaud said:
'other poets will come -
what will their thoughts
smell like...'
something like that?
maybe I've forgotten now,
or just forged something
of my own onto it, without
even noticing...
when I went to Charleville,
Meziere, twenty odd years ago,
I thought I was going to find
out, what it is to truly see,
beyond...
but I didn't really travel
the right roads,
self conscious scenes
was all I could sense or see,
as if escaping, required, cutting
out a hole, and slipping out of it,
it's so hard to move,
without precoginitives,
yes everything can vibrate
to the point of a lie,
yes purity with smudgy
finger prints all over it -
yeah!
down that oily black liver,
slicked with burst red eyes,
no child of the Sun,
did I recover from the
mocking sea, of your hurtful
voices,
World of action,
the cotton clouds
I tore away by the teeth,
and the white glue
that smelt like fish,
is like a wish,
come true...
and today you must
surrender to the finer
poet animals...
who have no smell!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem