The Thorn of Thought
“It is the thorn of thought,” young Rimbaud said
To Izambard—other underlings, too.
The prodigy was bleeding from his head,
But not just blood. Black tercets flowed, a brew
Intoxicating and enough to float
A drunken boat, and verses full of must,
Must colored blue, enough to make a moat
Around his brain, with bridges out to lust.
His scarlet tastes dealt self-inflicted wounds
Out in the woods of poetry to cause
A gathering of purple-thirsty hounds
For him to whip despite their begging paws.
Blood genius troubles lyric troubadours.
It turns them into masochistic whores.