A Detrimental Adulation
(with Apologies to Verlaine)
So Rimbaud gets the credit, no matter
What. Paul accomplishes what no one’s done
Before in verses, but Rimbaud’s splatter
On paper, like results from a spray gun
That spews out vomit from the chewed up tricks
That poets have employed for thousands of
Years, gets the praise instead. Rimbaud yanks bricks
From temple architecture and the love
Of beauty doesn’t matter anymore.
He chucks us synesthesia (born of drugs)
And murky imagery and metaphor—
And some line up to lick his teenage dugs
Presuming they can suck artistic milk
From them. What comes to mind is sow’s ear silk.