Tag Archives: Paris

On Reading Rimbaud, The Little Asshole

Is it possible to make one’s face so lifeless that it becomes invisible?
I think it might be. I know it
In fact, it’s as easy as an icebreaker through three-foot thick drifts
I’ll practice it, become a famed magician, conjuring horizons and bending light round my body
What time I’ll buy, a non-person, a no-one
Free as an asteroid out of orbit, tracing a silent arc through the endless dark
Only to reappear at will, saving face, playing the percentages
I’ll be a rich man, rich and redundant
The world getting along just fine without knowing my step
Energy distilled into a direct beam
Hot enough to melt sand and make a mirror in which my reflection is seen only by me
Self-sustaining, vampiric, in unholy, solitary, unfettered happiness

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