Hunger
I only find within my bones,
A taste for eating earth and stones.
When I feed,
I feed on air,
Rocks and coals and iron ore.
My hunger, turn.
Hunger, feed:
A field of bran.
Gather as you can the bright,
Poison weed.
Eat the rocks a beggar breaks,
The stones of ancient churches,
Pebbles, children of the flood,
Loaves left lying in the mud.
Beneath the bush a wolf will howl,
Spitting bright feathers
From his feast of fowl:
Like him, I devour myself.
Waiting to be gathered,
Fruits and grasses spend their hours;
The spider spinning in the hedge,
Eats only flowers.
Let me sleep!
Let me boil,
On the altars of Solomon;
Let me soak the rusty soil,
And flow into Kendron.
Arthur Rimbaud
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THE PHOTOGRAPH - by PHILIP WHITE - IS A SNAP OF BERLS AND SOME MATES ON THE WALL AT THE VICTORY FOR SUNSET DRINKS ON THE OCCASION OF HER SPLENDID BIRTHDAY ... CLICK IMAGE FOR JOHN CALE READING THE POEM ON A FAVOURITE HECTOR ZAZOU ALBUM
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