“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!”
― Arthur Rimbaud
I left my sanity behind
to better see life
without constraint of barriers
that ‘good sense’ bring.
I laughed with fools at kings
in the mirror
and they giggled
smiling coquettishly in their gowns
like call boys enticing a trick.
In streets of red light
I entertained a duchess
but would not take money
for all the hours of wisdom
she gave me.
I pissed on flowers
and watched them grow into light poles
in colours’ ever shifting landscape
I crawled on my belly
through bits of jagged broken tears
to bring back this butterfly for you.
— G A Rosenberg
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