Rimbaud

He wrote in whole form,
an oblong displays of life

above

the heads of the Zutist Circle.

Back and forth

swinging

like a guillotine.

He pinned art:
from lice, hunger pains, broken glass, booze, the dank smell of the sea, black pots, grime and diease.

He created expression from decay,

              absurdity, desperation.

A prodigy child driven into throes
by the tongues of men.

He sucked life,
from withered bones,
with lips as blunt as 

butter knives.