Dark, squinched up like the bud of a violet,
it breathes humbly, tucked among tuffs of moss
which follow the slope still slick with love’s gloss
from pale ass cheek to the rim of its eyelet.
Filaments like tears of cream cry out askant
against gusts of foul wind driving them astray
through fields strewn with clots of reddish clay
till they peter out down the enticing slant.
My dream is to butt to its suction cup.
My soul, for actual coitus hard up,
seeks out this gutter, this nest of tears.
Swooning olive gland, flute for which to pine,
tube from which slides celestial praline,
a feminine Canaan within a mat of hairs.
*
After the poem attributed to Rimbaud in the Pléiades edition, purportedly co-authored with Paul Verlaine. A parody of the blason sub-genre, in particular a series of poems by Albert Mérat.
*
Obscur et froncé comme un œillet violet,
Il respire humblement tapi parmi la mousse.
Humide encor d’amour, qui suit la rampe douce
Des fesses blanches jusqu’au bord de son ourlet.
Des filaments pareils à des larmes de lait
Ont pleuré sous l’autan cruel qui les repousse
À travers de petits caillots de marne rousse,
Pour s’aller perdre où la pente les appelait.
Mon rêve s’aboucha souvent à sa ventouse ;
Mon âme, du coït matériel jalouse,
En fit son larmier fauve et son nid de sanglots.
C’est l’olive pâmée et la flûte câline,
Le tube d’où descend la céleste praline,
Chanaan féminin dans les moiteurs enclos.