Rimbaud was a demonic implosion, fierily clawing the mist of molecules strangling the sublunacy. Armed with baldrics of snakehide sensuality, phantasmagorially phalanxed and welded together with absinthine ague, our rimbounder poet sought epiphanies of divine atheism in order to ordain the ministry of precedence to the ophthanatos. He wrote nice things, and after those nice things embarked towards cartographic voids, weft together lacunae of our oblivion, how he consonanced nullity with black-empty cerebrash strokes! Hell and back, timetables mnemonically caressed, hell and back, loco-motion, hell and back, darkness of the night at either end.
A tender monstrance, an host devoured by sexalted hagiography, Arthur, defiling innocence with torrents of pen and ink, he, a shithead through-and-through, rough-and-rough frou-frou on paper, underneath dripping spite. A cell of carousal, a true poet - for what is a true poet, if not one gruesomely crippled by ability, always on the lookout for parallel bodies, never seen nor sought; a frantic exploderer, sucking history dry with proboscis atrophied by evolution, looking for wrong nuances, and ultimately spawning sheerness out of frustration! His terrestrial communication? but signals sent from the shore of Already! Blazingly phobic floressence!
Flip the final sou: Arseholy Arthur, the sauntering shit. Footwear worn in ordealure, souls too close to the sun not to roar in hellflames. Sinbiosis, fungus who wrought decay, a cancergrowth on the society he could never even bother to look through other lies.
Wild tormented fool who tore to the middle, tentatively stretching towards our beginnings and ends.