“Sonnet of the Asshole” by Arthur Rimbaud Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation, It sighs, humbly nestling in the moss still moist from love That follows the descent of sweet white cheeks Down to their edge. Filaments like tears of milk Have wept beneath the cruel south wind That drives them back across the little clots of russet clay, And disappeared there where the slope has called them. My Dream has often kissed its opening; My Soul, that envies mortal intercourse Has chosen this to be its wild and musky nest of sobs. It is the swooning olive and the sweet cajoling flute The tube through which celestial creamy pralines tumble down Female Promised Land rimmed round with dew!