The Legend of Arthur Rimbaud (Part 2)

Since his arrival, ten years had passed
and the boy grew, drinking only the finest

spring water and consuming the most potent
of herbs. It was time to reveal his portent

nature, securing his place in history.
Now was the time to meet his contemporaries.


2. In Which Our Hero Meets His Contemporaries


"Have you heard about this Rimbaud boy?"

"Is he crying for his favorite toy?"

"No,
he won the contest over breakfast,
claimed his prize
and shouted, 'who's next?'
and if I'm able to guess
I'd guess that he meant us."

"Good for him. How exciting.
How quaint and uninspiring"

"Don't you know that he'll come here,
call us names, recite that queer
style of poetry that borders on prose?"

"Yes, I see. How deriding
for our art and for our earning.
I suggest we go down fighting
and put an end to his rise."

"For the sake of all that's holy
I suggest that we hide."

"Why?

From a boy?

He can have your trembling "hide".
Do you know what I did today?"

"Do tell"

"I wrote a sonnet for a lord,
a sestina for his daughter,
then I got a little bored
and drank some mineral water,

but it didn't end.
Those cretins pretend

to know how to compose
verse. As I lay in repose,

cursing Phoebus, they had
the insolence to ask

whether I was sleeping
or if I was working."

"Shhhh! Keep it down I hear he has
excellent hearing.
Oh shit, here he comes."

My name is Rimbaud and I am rock hard.
Lock up your sons,
but you
can keep your daughter and I
came to earth with dearth, curt
to spread to word.

I lay the hurt with mirth,
bitch,
you thought I wouldn't find you?

Can I blame them?
Shall I shame them?

Pinned to the table I pity
their fixed position,

their neckties pulled too tight
they're stuck in some perdition

and all they can manage is
to write in introspection.
The post they've been tethered to
does not allow creation.

Your lord and master was not chosen by the muses,
confusing silver spoons as proof that is conclusive.
I don't know why he stood aside and let you do this.
Your gift was wasted,
now it's vacant,
consecrated by your maker
and He takes what He has given
with no trace of human feeling

cause the bourgeois don't care to be immortal,
their work still living when they
exit this mortal coil.

You're a novelty
of society.
Typical trinket for those
of notoriety type.
It's not right.
You should be the one to get the hype,
cut the tripe:
the fat cats,
those hazmats,
controlling what you have of a life.


"And give up our toast and tea?
This is the 16th century.

Would you have us in a field
or better yet prepare a meal?

We would much prefer to keel
over dead than know what's 'real'."

This is what you choose?

Sitting in a tea room,
eating all the good food?

Where the starving artist,
hungry for new ways to impart his knowledge?
Oh yeah,
he just up and left for college,
lost all the fight in him just get a wage.

I take large bites out of life because
I can't afford to.
Measure in tea spoons?
Hah!
How bout a revolution?

"See here young man.
Mind your manners, watch your tone.
The style you employ is not
something you own.
It's origin speaks in a
primeval moan.
The meter you break may be
a human bone."

It's not broken, you see
it's still moving, you see
I'm not moved and, you see
it's only syncopated, related
through evolution, you knew
this day would come

when a young man would speak up
and tell you that you're done.

"You think this match is won?
You think that we are done?"

Fun as it is to converse with has-beens
my rhythm has corrupted your minds so I win.

"Where did you get the thought that we were beat so easy.
Your rhyme scheme
is sleazy;
your choice of words is measly,

and all you can manage is to-

Oh...."