Pt. 11
Penny Rimbaud
Grace smiles. Oh, my God, grace smiles,
yet I see but a petulant pout that I might fill it good
and for just one frail moment feel it good also
that she be choked in the joke of it
and you be better informed of my vagary.
Away, away.
And then, again, the fall and horror's feign
the smug satisfaction of the bourgeoisie.
Fuck you, fuck you and your hollow whimsy.
Fuck you.