DEATH OF A POET 4

What a horribly
long
agonising death
Rimbaud had

OK
he had turned
into
a total bastard
by then
but still
you wouldn't
wish that
on your worst enemy

Some stinking
Marseilles hospital,
the starchy staleness,
the mouldy sun,
rotting flowers,
writhing
in unbearable pain

Oh, god!
In some other life
everything purred.
Neo-Baudelarian felines
sipped
lush heavenly
cream
and shook their
milky paws
in feverish delight