Ode to Rimbaud
Over here:
We under, hear the hip-monarch of corruption.
This is a version of harmony’s hero/ins
Rising to the worlds of love’s extremities
(with its axis of truth)
It twists on subterranean intensity:
A convex’d colliery into the antonyms… the synonyms…
We are the new sun!
And yes, all could possibly,,, start…
[[[melting like popsicles...]]] !
The walls are crooked timberlines depressing perfect skies
That evolved in perfect parallel with the sea & soil’s support.
& we are woodland royalty hearing the peasants’ inborn cries
Active at a level that cannot, with a minor role, contort
A second look or exploit meaning with the subtlety of metaphor…
I sat on a welcoming rock
To listen to the ancient poet speak in a language
Translated for me on square pages to accommodate my conception
Hung in awe, my ears marinated themselves, desperate to learn of
Mysteries that lie deep beneath our oceans,
Heroes whose ventures lie on the warrant of the treble clef,
Wisdom that sunk far before the middle ages,,, to make room
For free enterprise.
Who’s going to write of a new calling?
I wish I could hear the poet speak without unraveling the lines
Of a classic tale,,,! someone who could move the people & not lie silent of the shelf...
For the sweet philosophy to be un-buried to teach us who we are,
The nature of the origins,,,
[[[those]]] must be unavailable for resurrection, unavailable for visitation,,,
The crown is astound-ed
By the factions of modern truth...
Who is going to write of a new calling?
It was you & I, until we realized... it's been said by no one new:"
Must not make them like they used to...!"
O Muse!~
We under, hear the hip-monarch of corruption.
This is a version of harmony’s hero/ins
Rising to the worlds of love’s extremities
(with its axis of truth)
It twists on subterranean intensity:
A convex’d colliery into the antonyms… the synonyms…
We are the new sun!
And yes, all could possibly,,, start…
[[[melting like popsicles...]]] !
The walls are crooked timberlines depressing perfect skies
That evolved in perfect parallel with the sea & soil’s support.
& we are woodland royalty hearing the peasants’ inborn cries
Active at a level that cannot, with a minor role, contort
A second look or exploit meaning with the subtlety of metaphor…
I sat on a welcoming rock
To listen to the ancient poet speak in a language
Translated for me on square pages to accommodate my conception
Hung in awe, my ears marinated themselves, desperate to learn of
Mysteries that lie deep beneath our oceans,
Heroes whose ventures lie on the warrant of the treble clef,
Wisdom that sunk far before the middle ages,,, to make room
For free enterprise.
Who’s going to write of a new calling?
I wish I could hear the poet speak without unraveling the lines
Of a classic tale,,,! someone who could move the people & not lie silent of the shelf...
For the sweet philosophy to be un-buried to teach us who we are,
The nature of the origins,,,
[[[those]]] must be unavailable for resurrection, unavailable for visitation,,,
The crown is astound-ed
By the factions of modern truth...
Who is going to write of a new calling?
It was you & I, until we realized... it's been said by no one new:"
Must not make them like they used to...!"
O Muse!~
posted by Hypotenuse at 3:35 PM
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