September 2011
28 posts
Deep Bone Insomnia: Novel →
deepboneinsomnia.tumblr.com
I.
No one’s serious at seventeen.
—On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
—You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.
Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings…
“They promised us to bury the tree of good and evil in the shade, to banish tyrannical honesties, so that we might bring forth our very pure love. It began with a certain disgust and ended—since we weren’t able to grasp this eternity all at once—in a panicked rout of perfumes.”
—Arthur Rimbaud, from “Morning of Drunkenness,” trans. John Ashberry (via proustitute)
At last, O happiness, O reason, I brushed from the
sky the azure that is darkness, and I lived—gold spark
of pure light. Out of joy I took on an expression as
clownish and blank as possible:It is recovered!
What? Eternity.
It is the sea mixed with the sun.- Arthur Rimbaud, from A Season in Hell
