Rimpaud is dead
and the boat of passion that floated
over River Indos and Gaggis
entered alone
into the darkish waters of Acherontas
sadly giving up the steering wheel

Rimbaud is dead
and as much of the flame was based
on a thin candle’s chimney
shuttered upon the ice of his dead lips

Rimbaud is dead
but all the lavdanum he poured all the absinthe
is breathing for ever free
into the bodies of breastless girls

Rimbaud is dead
inside the dust scattered
the necklace of his adolescent mind
but his Self is Our Selves
inside the infinity
of the fire of unstoppable action

Rimbaud is dead
but out of his grave is shouting through the boulevards of rebellion
«I, Is the Other!»
how many summers must he deliver
for us, eternal Winters,
a dead child?

photos: David Wojnarowicz
Arthur Rimbaud in New York
1978-1979 / 2004
Aus der 44-teiligen Serie
32.8 x 24.5 cm
© Estate of David Wojnarowicz / SAMMLUNG VERBUND, Wien
Courtesy Estate of P.P.O.W. Gallery, New York and Cabinet Gallery, London