An Abjection

In Paris at the fin-de-siècle, hanging out with the poètes maudits, when Baudelaire gets a round of drinx in…

One dissolved sucre later a mewl skips my chest, then a rollicking growl, an almighty din, a lightning bolt, then several, dash forth from within, singeing the eyebrow of the under-appreciated barmaid who, tray set as if by spirit level, fixed by the rivets of her ample hand, had switched her hips at ‘Poor Lelian’ in vain, in whose heart the raindrops gather instead at Rimbaud’s frollicking with Germain Nouveau; meanwhile the teeming of my burgeoning arteries and veins fan the flames of this aberrant conflagration, prompting an anachronistic smoke alarm to warble, the clock’s eyes to spin back in their sockets at such plaintive lullaby, then bleed slowly down-wall to slither, ashamed, in the cracks of the boot-scuffed floor; all five senses now running amok, marauding, sallying like juvenile Turks, tugging the manes of their flowery vowels, now braying, and my chest still firing, involuntarily, its orotund, scintillant darts…*

Absinthe makes the heart grow thunder.

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1 Response to An Abjection

  1. *Mallarmé, sporting ill-fitting lamé, hurling his dice ‘gainst the stygian door…


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