Rimbaud Stops for the Night at Cinderella's Castle

The discoveries of new constellations, migrating forests, suspended caves & shapeless fauna are duly recorded in duplicate, clocks punched, the hull scraped & freshly painted, our ship returns safely to harbour with a perfect list of infinite verbs & suffixes in place of cargo; intended ports of call expunged from the chart. Lloyd's of London is suspicious. Tabloids are filled with pictures of empty pockets. The poles change abruptly, volcanoes bloom out of season. Tierra del Fuego makes landfall in Oklahoma while flirting with Norway.

Such then is the refractory love from whose slipper I drank the champagne of heavy skies & scowling afternoons when the mildew won, the sweating walls fatigued & the tendrils of my heart moored to a black grin. In the hands of a left-handed crew the buried treasure holds a clue. Who knew what a harsh ride I would tell? 

I wound the music box, she let out her hair, the hinges groaned all gaiety & rage. Promise hung from the air. Swimming slow as a turtle, she moaned, I must've swallowed my tongue, my ink is turning purple. Conversation gone, the chimney shook with a look of surprise. If a wharf's a pier & darling's a dear then we two are nearly flying. 

New born, for a while complete, I kiss her hands, her feet, all's gaiety & rage… humidity & heat.

She handled me, disaligned me, left the phone off the hook. Brass tacks, patched sails, she left me stargazing on a star. Picked my lock, got inside, two wings over her face. Turned in bed, six wings & more – spat in my beer & disappeared spinning on a merry-go-round.

The river's running after us. Shrug left, shrug right, too late to ask for pardon. Stay or stray, come back, go away. Not a moment to lose, no time to choose, both sides of bread & butter.

……………………. 

When you see yourself sailing under the earth know that you're sleeping, all heaven is yours to take with yourself & keep it. 

Divide it, hear yourself count, counting change, counting changes things; a child at the zoo – keep counting. How many there are you'll never be sure.

The waves keep coming, failing, they keep coming. In time, in time… Fall back, rise again, will the persistent waves overcome the shore?

If you see yourself sailing under the earth, know that you're sleeping. Should this be paradise, you'll need to defect & roll the dice again.

…………………….

Pursuing the east, a spoiled fruit spilling its fermented juice, my leg split open in the heat – I dropped it where Cendrar's arm decants his wine for the doomed, in oblivion – the lost & found of the universe – Ultima Thule, six days north of Britannia, where Cinderella sings her aria in a tin bra to the junk of memory, the Twilight of the Gods, the God-Damn-Er-Oong, the Toilet of the Gods, so to speak.

Changed my name & sent back a double. Already the chambermaids are cleaning up, someone else is booking my room. A little splash with the back of her hand, pretty as a caper bush & just as prickly –  yes, I'm running a bed & breakfast with Cinderella; should my head fall off & roll away she'll put it gently on the night table next to a Bible. Send Cain & Abel downstairs to play.

Is all dying done on the infidel Barbary coast, far from home to escape the bricks of Babel, that pot-au-feu, that femme fatale, our very own pissy mattress – Paris? A jar of manna or a bottle of rye? Reshuffle the deck… Time travel struggles with the future imperfect; the invalid ticket. The parts that don't fit return of their own. Once too many, water escaping the sieve – Your old friend, Rimbaud.

Marty Newman