THE ACCURSED
For A. Rimbaud
He curses the banality of day
And the inevitable darkness of night
He curses when he cannot say
That which consumes his sight
He curses heaven and he curses hell
Ah! he curses, and he curses well!
He curses the silence of his inert arm
Out of sequence with his kinetic thoughts
He curses his repulsiveness, his lack of charm
And the fortress of solitude, which he haunts
He curses love and he curses hate
Ah! he curses, and he curses great!
He curses the blatancy of time
Standing still while moving swiftly
He curses meter, and he curses rhyme
And the chains of rules that hang so limply
He curses wealth and he curses poverty
Ah! he curses, and he curses properly!
He curses the blackness of his heart
Once red as a boxer’s bloody lips
He curses the meaninglessness of his art
And his dreary fate as a poete maudit
He curses his pride and he curses his indignity
Ah! he curses, and he curses indiscriminately!
He curses the balance wine brings him,
A spell of mania for his depression
He curses his veil of fabricated freedom
To the world, he declares his secession
He curses heaven and he curses hell
Ah! he curses, and he curses well!
copyright by T. William Phillips
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