my happy Rimbaud

the clock isn’t working

the ring in the bone

the drink in the gin

the machine in the man

here too they are howling

in the streets

 

the cats are crapping

the brothels are fucking

 

prisoners we walk by the eyes

of the snake

poisons and potions are good

for you

 

ask

 

Rimbaud

 

the lunatic sun fries

our brains

 

even the screws are twitching

in the heat

 

spirits of angels crouch

in the doorways

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