after Arthur Rimbaud

Literally, a horror. I’ve known clumsiness in flayers
& scorchers but theirs I find barbarous ineptitude, a sacrilege
to the trade. All hands, liars; sons of good families, but in fighting,
lazier than the toad.
The master criminals’ blue-white hair & Gallic domesticity,
their idolatry, sickens me: I don’t care. Narrow skulls, disgusting
clothes, what beasts! Honestly, families like that owe everything
to lust—magnanimous plough—using the body for a living,
butter on the tongue.
But oh! my pen is intact: perfidious indolence is grass.
Only a base age of beggars, like my own, could declare this castration
magnificent. I never shall.