Go rimbaud, go go rimbaud

O rimbaud, why did you leave me
for ivory traders, accountants
a dog that pissed in the street?

Maybe I too should go,
back to the suburbs
find some wife, some dog, some job
where words are just words
just a thing we use sometimes.

But when you’ve obtained the knives of the pen
by trial and error and bleeding,
you don’t give em up so easy.

Perhaps it’s a case of attrition,
slowly but slowly the knife turns blunt
and is placed one day in a drawer
maybe thrown away or forgotten
like a childhood fascination with burning matches
before you grew up and kept them for their proper use

Making you mouth move is a subtle art.
Sure, I make it look easy,
writing poems in waiting rooms,
forwarding letters to unknown addresses,
scribbling notes to imaginary gods.

You see I can’t seem to escape the feeling
that all these people want to tie down all these words
to useful meanings for times of need,
not matches casting shadows.

Kevin Millband