If Only Someone Had Sent Verlaine
Arthur’s High School Report
The perfect monster that he grew to be
Attained its zenith lacking moons and stars
In London. He went on a hateful spree,
Campaigning there to gouge his man with scars
External and internal, both in time
And in eternity—assuming there
Is such a thing for victim poets. Crime
Was Rimbaud’s goal in Camden where the stair
Surged up towards wounds and insults to the heart.
He hated lyricism of a sort
That moved in softness, sadness—sweeter art.
He favored blood and semen by the quart.
One high school teacher augured this of him
That he was galaxies malformed and grim.
