False Translation of “Hunger,” Rimbaud, A Season in HellNava Fader
If it’s the gout, it’s not the war that pours to the earth like clowns in June, the troubadours of the air, of rock, of Charybdis, of fear. These amuse, turn about. Prance, tickle. Prey on the children until the cats come, with whom they have an appointment. Many the caterwauls, for the sake of the bruise. Small hairs are fooling the egglets. Winds are older than floodings, pain always dancing in the greasy valley. The winding one is birthed under the fumes. In the cradle, his belly grows plumage of the old ways, of flight: come to the luau. We’ll take a taste do it with the lettuces and fruits. No one’s watching what you do with the blade. How you lay your pubic hairs not tangled among the violets. What a sleep! What a stew! By the axes of Solomon, gold bouillon cuts below the ruddiness, and the honey sinks to silt.
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