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william-crowe-iiPoems
O! sweet Angel; cherub; seraph; beautiful nymph, cradle the night in delicate French hands, bend it to match your invisible words, your intangible sentences. You have the most beautiful face in Europe, did you know that? The eyes, vacant and holy; the mouth, tender and rose-shaped; the nose, delicate like veneer; the twilight black and white plays off the intelligence in your face and howls out mad words, brilliant words, works of art. We are a breed trapped in your silken and desolate stare, forever to study you and scrutinize you, your fiendish ways, your rambunctious poetries-- your poetries are published in Heaven, did you know that? They are made of glass and I am afraid that my hands may crush them when I bring my fingers across newly-printed pages. My own poetries are so ******* demonic; Enoch smiles in the land of the dead and prepares them for printing. My own nature is so bland, so ritualistic, so uninteresting; I am not a *** I am not a rebel, I am not a drug fiend; I am a student playing at being an anarchist. But your lice-infested sheets are gone and burned. Your lover's hand, now decayed beneath the French earth. The ***** dens of Paris, the absinthe dens of Paris, seem to be gone. You would not enjoy it here anymore. I hope I find you in Heaven, for you have the most angelic face in Heaven-- the clouds pale next to you, the cherubs with their trumpets turn away and weep. I hope I find you in Heaven, for we have a lot to teach one another.
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May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
Elegy to Arthur Rimbaud
O! sweet Angel; cherub; seraph; beautiful nymph, cradle the night in delicate French hands, bend it to match your invisible words, your intangible sentences. You have the most beautiful face in Europe, did you know that? The eyes, vacant and holy; the mouth, tender and rose-shaped; the nose, delicate like veneer; the twilight black and white plays off the intelligence in your face and howls out mad words, brilliant words, works of art. We are a breed trapped in your silken and desolate stare, forever to study you and scrutinize you, your fiendish ways, your rambunctious poetries-- your poetries are published in Heaven, did you know that? They are made of glass and I am afraid that my hands may crush them when I bring my fingers across newly-printed pages. My own poetries are so ******* demonic; Enoch smiles in the land of the dead and prepares them for printing. My own nature is so bland, so ritualistic, so uninteresting; I am not a *** I am not a rebel, I am not a drug fiend; I am a student playing at being an anarchist. But your lice-infested sheets are gone and burned. Your lover's hand, now decayed beneath the French earth. The ***** dens of Paris, the absinthe dens of Paris, seem to be gone. You would not enjoy it here anymore. I hope I find you in Heaven, for you have the most angelic face in Heaven-- the clouds pale next to you, the cherubs with their trumpets turn away and weep. I hope I find you in Heaven, for we have a lot to teach one another.
#love#dedication#heaven#rimbaud
william-crowe-ii
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william-crowe-ii
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
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