Androgynous,
ambivalent:
this perpetual
twist-shifting, down the chapel
on a polluted
October blustering impossible morning...
She condenses
all thought, all feeling, into similes
like butterflies
caught in a web of clichés -
it’s easier that
way.
Albert walks meandering thru’ W12,
proud as
cactus hairs, a
twine of Verlaine in his cock pocket:
prole voice
pole-vaulted thru distant clouds
but he has never
seen one up close –
airplanes,
cocktails and dark sentiments don’t mix:
Albert is a man
with his feet on
the ground.
Anodyne
& alert
she
sucks his dull prick
The penis, a
hairless cactus plant
in the desert of
her lonesome old soul.
But the poetry
of penetration is a complex issue
and the rubbing
of dry tissue,
a mere catharsis
and Albert,
a man with his
feet on the ground.
* * * *
in algeria,
on a clapped out remington rand,
with
syphilitic ten year old boys
lounging
about in his back yard,
he explored a
netherworld
his beatnik
friends only dreamed of...
but that was
way back when
before the
shepherd’s bush
of altered
realities
shrunk into
flatline banality
* * * *
In the cloisters
of 49 Adelaide Grove,
after the short
dark walk from White City,
he enters her: a
stranger, an envoy,
a messenger; he
reads aloud
passages from
People’s Friend,
rocks her to
sleep with his laughter.
Drifting off,
on the magic
carpet of her laptop,
he calculates
the days gone
by.
There
in the clock
gland,
in the clenched
fingers of his right hand.
Sometimes he
imagines
the spectre of Edward
Munch
painting a giant
vampiric cunt:
the image makes
him smile,
even though
he is dried out,
desiccated -
a misanthrope
hung by his own
rope.
She smiles into her knitting
and he is compliant,
silent tap tapping
on her laptop,
a spew of words,
a senescent recalling
of these days gone by.
* * * *
algeria is a
dream of dark red blood:
mirrors speak
of
vulvas and vestibules,
labyrinths and monsters.
she winds the
clock, but not back.
peeling away
labial lips
she smiles,
like a score
of young sun browned boys.
* * * *
And then they
are a fusion of cock and cunt,
an extinguishing
of all distinction.
Into nothingness
they fall,
clutching
each to each
other.
And then there
is that insistent voice,
throwing
questions at your feet:
What flowers
express
days gone by?
And you know the
answer:
it’s as clear as
a Fassbinder film -
Lilies,
white lilies.
* * * *
Hands soft as
bread,
Albert walks
thru’ a monochrome forest.
He arrives at a
clearing
and e-mailed to
him
in crystal clear
chromatic colour
is a Jpeg file
of a florist shop
spilling over
with white lilies
and attached to
them:
the love note he
never wrote,
which he had
hoped would express...
days gone by.
Read more of Dee Rimbaud's poetry
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