sonnet of the anus
"dark and wrinkled like a purple carnation
it breathes, humbly lurking among the dark moss
humid from love, following the damp trail
of the white buttocks to the heart of their domain.
threads like tears of milk
weep under the cruel south wind that pushes
through small clots of reddish marl,
and lose themselves where the slope calls them.
in dream i have often kissed its opening;
my soul, jealous of physical coitus
made this its wild and tearful nest of sobs.
it is a swooning olive, a cajoling flute
this is the tube where the heavenly praline flows:
promised land with moisture rimmed!"
- Arthur Rimbaud, Paul Verlaine, 1871