Rimbaud died and we are all alive

There is one pothole

every Friday away

that a mid level tech

geek is happy to stray

into, for fear of cha-cha

-ing with his third floor

neighbour over his late

night strolls over to Mrs. Verma’s

cottage and slipping,

rather quietly so

out of his shoes and into

an arm as slender as Mrs. Verma’s

and hairy as Mr. Verma’s

could be. While this transpires

at 2 am, the POV my

8th floor apartment

cigarette ashes fall into the pothole

and I am sucked into

like once before

into a cycle of rebirth and grief

but it’s not that serious

I’m only seventeen

I’ m only walking amongst the trees

just like Arthur wrote

well, come to think of it

didn’t Rimbaud die at 24?

What a bummer that must have been

to have been loved before your time

to have been dead before you were loved

to have known fear and rejection

before you died, for the world couldn’t

understand what this pothole meant

ans neither could you

Rimbaud didn’t die for his sins

he teetered at the brink

and broke when he couldn’t

keep the pieces together anymore

like a puzzle in a kid’s room

he fell into the bin

to never again emerge

and walk this earth in any livin’

shape or form. Arthur Rimbaud

who died at 24, wasn’t serious

at 17, and that

was the greatest gift of all

a man in pain, a soul redeemed.

It’s merely a pothole they say

just be happy and stay that way

easy comes and easy goes

but sometimes the rougher gales wait

and all the Rimbaud’s are washed away

every poet is dead in his wake

every stray shoe points

the pothole’s way. If you must stare

into the rift, do so with a friend

to pull you aside, and bring you back

let her know CPR and maybe even

love’s marshmallow pathways.

Far too many Arthurs have died

Far too many Franks have hurt

for a Rimbaud or a Kafka

better men that we are

who deserved their lives

and not the pothole’s cruel fray.

The techie emerges, hiding

in the night’s obscurity

but he can feel the Pryings

judging gaze, a third floor balcony

an eighth floor weirdo

so he must put on a show

a tamed lion always shaves his mane

and just like that, the nightcrawler

scuttles like a guilty Frankenfiend

one more Arthur may be dead

but we are all living today,

for Rimbaud dipped his ink in gold

and is now a Warhol

who must suffer, for we are fearful

to see into the pothole

lest it should swallow us

and only leave a mediocre trail.

Great men don’t always die great deaths

sometimes great women just

fall or cut, like a Super 8 reel

straight to their demise

and we bury them, singing

songs in their praise and wishing

that we could have been friends

with the weirdo who severed his ear

and called himself Van Gogh

the Pryings are whispering

amongst themselves. They know

I know their secret. Okay! I

don’t wish to jump off this ledge.

I’m not a Rimbaud or Van Gogb

but then I hear the catchphrase

“You don’t have to be that great,

to die by our hand. Now stare

into the pothole man and whee,

you are off to a better place.”

All the neighbours hear is a Thwack!

A lot of me to clean up the next day

such is the pothole’s way.

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