This is a long prose poem about Arthur Rimbaud. If you don't like experimental material, you should probably avoid it.

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After the idea of the flood had receded in the nickel wooden arcade discos left in rain gorged tenements and the theater nooks of daytime television closed off to further use in the arcade spell books, the video game brick flying apart with smoke bomb liqueurs, Synesthesia memes eating in pixellated diamonds, blue trick drop panels. This is the static wallpaper brick Synesthesia of Madame X’s jackboot army, her juniper bells and puppet head Christmas lights.
The miniature organs are rising in the clay shadows with keys of piano asterisks. Reach for the tips of the blood ice Symbolist moon dying surely as a dilated bison in the tetrahedral Native Keys, the vacationer’s brambles close his chest, open for the flux of velvet cushioned skiers in the Alps.
Stained glass elegies, the hushed breath of lunar fugue clown laughter unfurls itself quaking in the music bars of pyrite caverns, firefly jumpropes, single heart earthquakes and Orient yellow mentation. This is the blue oak cottage where the hooded children play with their injected eyeballs, drooling and sick on the deck.

His stovepipe hat cuts a singeing silhouette in a shadow frosted lining beneath the goldfish cut in etruscan circuit teeth bleeding with the angularity of a bumrushing corner in which the boy plays with his deflated ball and reduxes the grey etch a sketch tubes; he hides in the Mario pipes, green and connected. Hear him laugh, hear the Lego rhizome wheeze; Rimbaud twists the submarinal fugues.

“My turn now. The story of one of my insanities.

For a long time I boasted that I was master of all possible landscapes-- and I thought the great figures of modern painting and poetry were laughable.

What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, bright-colored prints, old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, the kind of novels our grandmothers read, fairy tales, little children's books, old operas, silly old songs, the naive rhythms of country rimes.

I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic.

I invented colors for the vowels! A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. I made rules for the form and movement of every consonant, and I boasted of inventing, with rhythms from within me, a kind of poetry that all the senses, sooner or later, would recognize. And I alone would be its translator.

I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.” Rimbaud

The aquatic clay tombs layered as cake open at his command, but this is with a cost; he is Lazarus now, olive eyed, sick from a strange color, eating the Somatoform guitar picks of a spaghetti western seen in the screen door caskets from which mesh where aquariums spill in sandaled jets wound to the ship’s back.

He spits in the raze of Chinoiserie smokebombs, blue and white, inhaling.

The Opal Clown

Face expansive and nailed in the plexiglass compact mirrors blush with shadow and filed in pagoda dial pins, the asbestos fills his pores one hour at a time in the faithful Sunday mornings, whipped with a velvet cat o nine tails driven with the gold nails of the dawn’s splashing sulpice, the atomic splash of pop rocks, and up out of the pool he surfaces, paddling wildly with his amoeba curling winged dove flippers, spitting at Vitalie and his private hour’s death; inviolate, stained glass hours, uncertain.

The cuckoo clock winds wind for the moment on a sundial in adolescence’s acrylic time, and scalped barbershop colors bleed in the heartiness R. as his mother feeds him strudel worms in somatoform scarves, bonfire Christabels together. He licks the spattered Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles breath of psychotic clowns off the window, drooling a hypnagogic Area 51 as it burns at the edges…….

The Girl With Orange Lip Glo…

Oh hear the bard!

The trance remembrances of blue pulse cellular theosophical ribbons waxed with the innocence of a sick cherub’s cough upon dying, as shamelessly unsentimental as that; and can we unfurl the isle starts, the destroyed Americas, abandoned malls, cracked windows in a pulpy corpse snowflake Symbolist moon!

His rifled boots are hopscotching and walking on two rivers, a child’s crayola marsh glued with the Blue Willow materials of moon adhesive filament to the gutter’s ceiling, flame licking ossuary catacombs combusting behind him. His eyes by now are crusted with pennies, his exhaustion Bergmanesque, smudged moons spinning to face us, burning through a billboard is the black lipstick smattered chiarascuro fattened specter of his entire head filling millennia, flaking as rotted plaster tents in the canyon spokes of a few inches beaming in falling canisters, jeweled bone of diurnal shadow.

Vigils: Mucha

R. swings a velvet embossed smoking purse embossed with SIN in knitted caterpillar fur, each smiling increment hatching a porcelain head with oriental emblems drooling in film stitches wound with skipped hours. Sugar cubes are burning, the numbered ashen hexes cuneiform in the soundhouse’s indexed voodoo bars dissipating with the slowly surfacing bobbing heads of oblong faces nailed to the mirror split in a fishnet spider perceptive multiplex. R. tires of dazzling with imagery, the sonic flowers in his palm dilate and leak inch by orgasm’s spilling eggshell inch; his amorphous growth in the mummified lark’s trick mirror funhouse grows, and he squirms in a scapular lace stringing the apple to his mouth, a vapor heart carved in wood. He is once more an enslaved call boy of the Numinous, given to the spectre of woodcut palaces, outhouses ossified with colloidal silver, spinning paint chips sticking his nubby fingers in his ears and dragging out eggshells of squirming plasma.

Childhood

My fingers are stuck with bled bits cubed in escalator wick lit lights. I see his face surfacing in ashen thumbprints of opal phoenixes grown in hypnagogic moons as the harvested moonflowers might be in the hershey twilight canyons, screaming in a breast stung and a mannequin leaking in perpetuity her cold moon milk. The pop rock quarks are spilling on his bow tie beneath the ocean sea of his eyes. The magma wave is beneath the escalator crests spinning. Through scholarship I am knitting his eyelashes with film strips, and his tongue searches for the sprockets I stitch his moon ball, black eyes together with.

His ember eyes burn, spinning apricots in wrinkled transits of shade. A storybook undoes itself in crystal paper cache.

For all his embittered misanthropy, Rimbaud always wants and wanted to be in the storybook. His face is an endless dysphoria of mystery. No one will ever know him fully.

The chinoiserie chess pieces fry with the Christmas nipples wired inside the lights. In a too long privacy of lime green she murders her family.

They move as a family, each hue in a march reverberant with the homemade mirror’s web seam: the fishermen’s neon catch; a vision fugue, a dissociated kiss, the Blue Lyric made from the woodcut kingdom’s cuckoo “I”. “I”!

The dying arcade’s asterisks fall like snowflake’s in the green ossuary’s burning canyon. His tongue protrudes and he lights a candle stolen from beneath the sleeping soldier’s blanket. In parcheesi geography the rising horses he finds every mile of his starved journey forms the ink AE Housman writes his book with, and they leak in Atari Hieroglyphs.

For sale the five o clock hour.
For sale braided dream cushion pins wet with the beloved’s ashes.
The split chinoiserie bits are jagged jade hues, stuck inside Rimbaud’s lips.

“What is this beautiful poison, this Oriental birth inside the grandfather clock?”

Rimbaud is at table, called down from the holly oak by the cuckoo blood of his mother’s voice.
The wallpaper is leaking idioms in a slow burn he feels in his gut. The green tea is quaking with quiet and the letters are an escapist tone he now despises. It is because of her.

The coal ember eyes spin. Her tattered French King James Bible is strong with the grip of her must; she is a gravitating mummy with a horrible posture. Her teeth expose as an incorruptible yellow. In some space layer he beats her across the room, each tooth flying a four sided jeweled crown he dodges, finding Seven Wounds of an anorexic ivory floating from his exposed rib.

He is naked at her feet, licking her boots. Picking the Oriental bits from his mouth. Not crying though, never crying.