/lit/ - Literature

Does anyone else see a lot of similarities between Rimbaud's poetic and Nietzsche' philosophy? Are there any essays or something like that about the relation in their work?

Stop being sober.

John Green. Pic unrelated.

Why has he so fucking devilish?

>>8711398
Wrong, apologize.

Name a better poet
Protein: you cant

"Business!" cries Rimbaud. "What about art? Eh? Does everything have to revolve around this goddamn business? Can't you people leave well enough alone?"

I say, "Well, you gave up art to be a trader."

Rimbaud frowns. "Thought I told you not to bring that shit up. Didn't I?"

"Sorry ..."

The waitress bring two pitchers of Michelob. Rimbaud abruptly grabs her ass. The waitress jumps, shrieks in terror. "Sir! Please!"

Rimbaud chortles. The waitress blushfully plods off. She says something to the manager, and he looks over at us. Rimbaud gives him the finger.

"You're gonna get us kicked outta here," I warn him.

Rimbaud shrugs, doesn't care.

We drink the beer. Rimbaud drinks right out of the pitcher. He slurps beer on the front of his rumpled and frayed button-down oxford shirt. Then he lets out a huge burp. "Carbonation," he explains.

The manager comes over. He's visibly upset. "This is a family restaurant," he quietly explains. "I'll have to ask you to please leave."

Rimbaud eyes him. "Family restaurant, eh?" he says derogatorily. "What do you know about the family? If anything, your culture has destroyed the family. For instance, you put old people in warehouses. If you don't want children, you have them sucked up in vacuum tubes. So, please, spare me the pious pontifications ... personal pizza, indeed."

Practically everybody in the place is staring at us.

"Sir," the manager hisses through clenched teeth, "I will call the police if you don't leave immediately!"

"We better go," I say.

Rimbaud is inflexible. "This guy doesn't scare me," he growls. "Big bad manager, eh? Ha! You get a rush off telling little school girls what to do? Hm? You pay them shit, Mr. Manager?"

"How much do we owe?" I ask the manager.

"Nothing," he says. "Just leave."

"C'mon, Rimbaud."

We leave. The manager stands at the door with his arms crossed as we get in the car. Rimbaud gives him the finger again.

I decide that Rimbaud, famous poet of the 19th century, is a great big pain in the ass.

We drive around.

Finally, Rimbaud says, "Got any coke left?"

"No," I answer. "You did the last of it."

Rimbaud grows surly. "Fuck a duck," he complains. "This is boring. Really boring. What do you do around here for fun? Where's the brothels? The opium dens?"

"That kinda stuff is illegal," I say.

"Figures."

Rimbaud wants to cruise for babes, even though there aren't very many available babes in this town. This is a small, conservative town, and most of the babes are married, going steady, or are the watched-over daughters of grocers and factory workers. The babes here aren't walking around waiting to be solicited by washed-up poets from the 19th century. They work at the Tasty Freeze or Revco and then, when the work is done, they go out with their husbands or boyfriends.

Rimbaud won't take no for an answer.

"There's gotta be at least one for me," he whines. "One lewd and lascivious girl with my name tattooed on her tit."

>>6554404

Swaggin hard

TO swag on my nigga, keep calm and yolo you Filthy bourgeois

>>4939772
SWAG