to Rimbaud

Two pages to a grape fable
dangles the swan of samite blood
shaping sand from thistle covered fog
Over sacred lakes of fever
(polished mouths of the vegetable frog
rolling to my iron venus)
I drop the chiseled pear
Standing in smoke filled valleys
(great domains of wingless flight
and the angel's fleshy gun)
I stamp the houses of withering wax
Bells of siren-teeth (singing to our tomb
refusal's last becoming)
await the approach of the incendiary children
lighting the moon-shaped beast

Every twisted river pulls down my torn-out hair
to ratless columns by the pyramid's ghost
(watered basin of the temple stink)
and all the mud clocks in haste
draw their mermaid-feather swords
(wrapped by Dust) to nail them
into the tears of the sea-gull child
The winter web minute
flutters beneath the spider's goblet
and the whores of all the fathers
bleed for my delight