Gorey, Figbash Dancing on the Steeple, 1987
When the world is reduced to a single dark wood for our two
pairs of dazzled eyes—to a beach for two faithful children—to a musical house
for our clear understanding—then I shall find you.
When there is only one old
man on earth, lonely, peaceful, handsome, living in unsurpassed luxury, then I
am at your feet.
When I have realized all your
memories, —when I am the girl who can tie your hands,—then I will stifle
you.
When we are very strong, who
draws back? or very happy, who collapses from ridicule? When we are very bad,
what can they do to us.
Dress up, dance, laugh. I
will never be able to throw Love out of the window.
—Comrade of mine, beggar
girl, monstrous child! How little you care about the wretched women, and the
machinations and my embarrassment. Join us with your impossible voice, oh your
voice! the one flatterer of this base despair.
* * *
A dark morning in July. The
taste of ashes in the air, the smell of wood sweating in the hearth, steeped
flowers, the devastation of paths, drizzle over the canals in the fields, why
not already playthings and incense?
* * *
I stretched out ropes
from spire to spire; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to
star, and I dance.
* * *
The high pond is constantly
streaming. What witch will rise up against the white sunset? What purple flowers
are going to descend?
* * *
While public funds disappear in brotherly celebrations, a
bell of pink are rings in the clouds.
* * *
Arousing a pleasant taste of
Chinese ink, a black powder gently rains on my night, —I lower the jets of
the chandelier, throw myself on the bed, and turning toward the dark, I see you,
O my daughters and queens!
Arthur Rimbaud
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