Arthur Rimbaud
Published: 2017-01-01
Total Pages: 90
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To the ReaderMasochism, error, sin, avarice, Occupy our psyches and tax our bodies, Like beggars we nourish our vermin,Fed by our neurosis and remorse. Our sins are hardheaded, our repentance feeble; We pay a high price for our false confessions, Even as we happily return to our dark ways, Believing that our phony tears will wash us clean.Satan, that Triune magistrate, Lulls and rocks us to sleep, enchanting our minds, And the precious metal of our will Is vaporized by this cunning alchemist.This puppet master holds the strings! In filth, we discover charms unimagined; And with each step, like automatons,We descend into the stench, into Hell.Like someone who kisses and bites The breast of an ancient whore, We take our clandestine pleasureAnd squeeze and suckle on a dried up orange. A million maggots swarm and a legion of DemonsInhabit our brains. When we breathe,Death enters us, its torrents and unseen wavesMuffling our whimpering cries.If rape, poison, arson and daggers have not wovenAnd embroidered their unique mark Into the banal canvas of our lives, It is because our souls are blank.But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitchesThe apes, the scorpions, the vultures,The snakes, the whining and howling monsters,The mongrels, in the menagerie of our vices,There is one uglier, more decrepit! Although he makes neither grand gestures nor wailing cries, He would willingly turn the world to ruins, And, in one gulp, swallow the earth;He is boredom -- His eyes wet with disdain, He dreams of towering guillotines as he puffs his hookah.You know him, that delicate monster,-- Reader hypocrite -- my alter -- my double!