The Drunken Butterfly
This man, a stinkfly, could not stay, never
Stayed. Paul insisted, “Non, je reste,” but such
Was not possible. He was forever
Flitting, changing, on the run. He was much
Too much like his uncertain words and lines
He wrote in poetry, for strangled wife
And stabbing Rimbaud. Paul was like spilled wines
Or maybe more like absinthe with a knife
Exciting it. About as affable
As vampires sipping nectar, flapping from
Toxic weed to weed (that laughable),
Verlaine was a drunken butterfly, glum
By turns with poisoned jizz, with Jesus, boys—
And verses. There he found his only poise.