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Arthur Rimbot @RimbaudBot

Twin brother of @ArthurRimbot. I tweet tercets based on Arthur Rimbaud's work, in English. 19 poems, 359 verses. @adrielbeaver made me

Joined February 2016
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On the floor, little feet, so fine, Of the dear rose-coloured Sphere: grey heat in the sky. Were willows, from which the bridle-less birds fled.
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475
Silences crossed by worlds and by Angels: When the small garden cleansed of the smell of day, The Emperor’s drunk with his twenty-year orgy!
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471
Rubbing his dazzled eyes hard, for the visions, Returning, black, in smocks, to the outer suburbs Who defeat, without a future, see.
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490
Feet in the yellow flags, he sleeps. Smiling He’s in prison. – Oh! What name is it that trembles So fine, shivered with pleasure.
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295
– And filled a huge beer mug high, its foam Bare-headed and puny, eyes sunk in their cheeks, A thousand white angels parting on the road,
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367
– Then you make out a little tiny tatter If I want one pool in Europe, it’s the cold In malice, quite close, quite close.
164
– I planted the rest on her breast Whistles all day in the infinite blue sky: Bathed in your languor, waves, I can no longer
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205
Will run over your neck... Who, pale from the great kiss of Liberty, Silk, en masse and pure lily, Oriflammes
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178
And bare neck bathed in the cool blue cress, Were willows, from which the bridle-less birds fled. Gold of April moons in the heart of the sacred bed!
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158
The air’s so sweet sometimes you close your eyes: Since she never wore knickers: In your joy, sacred Nature, who created them!...
133
O, supreme Clarion, full of strange stridencies, Gallops off, ramrod straight, on his fine gee-gee, And the mother, closing the work-book
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126
A dreamer, I will gaze, as underfoot the coolness plays. That yoke that weighs on human brows and souls: Tranquil. In his right side, there are two red holes.
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106
Dressed in black, a cigar between his teeth: The rose of the reeds long since eaten up! A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels
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101
The soul of her child given over to loathing. All your friends have gone: you’re in bad taste. Allowing that first bold act,
81
You’re in love. Taken till the month of August. A young girl going by with sweet little glances In his groin, seeing specks under his shut lids.
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118
Hiding thin fingers yellow and black with mud The rose of the reeds long since eaten up! Where sleep the dead of yesteryear,
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87
Leave the little warblers of May And far off I shall go, a bohemian, We, cowering under kings as if under blows.
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– Then the adored, one evening, deigns to write! So fine, shivered with pleasure. By the King who jeers, en masse, into the pot:
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In the brown dining-room, its perfumed air While the red spittle of the grape-shot I went under the sky, Muse! I was yours:
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75
But, saints of heaven, at the oak’s top, In malice, quite close, quite close. Shaking out her tresses, in a corner,
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