Spleen (Pluviôse, irrité)

It's not January yet, even though Baudelaire sort of says that it is. What to think?

Now it is autumn. Today was the first crisp and eerie day where the leaves looked like they actually belonged on the ground and the chill I felt was completely permanent. No more sticky summer feelings, even if summer did seem like it lasted a terribly long time. My selfsame, my brother, where will you be this evening.

Autumn smells like date rape, Hot Fuss, and every mistake I ever made.

Spleen (Pluviose, angry)
Pluviose, angry at the whole city,
From his urn in great waves pours a dark coldness
Onto the pale residents of the neighboring cemetery
And mortality on the hazy suburbs.

My cat searches for a litter on the tile
Stirs his meager, mangy body without rest;
The soul of an old poet wanders into the gutter
With the sad voice of a chilly phantom.

The great bell moans, and the smoking log
Accompanies in falsetto the sniffling clock,
While in a game full of foul perfumes,

Fatal inheritance from a dropsical old woman,
The beautiful knave of hearts and the queen of spades
Talk ominously of their former loves.

Spleen (Pluviôse, irrité)
Pluviôse, irrité contre la ville entière,
De son urne à grands flots verse un froid ténébreux
Aux pâles habitants du voisin cimetière
Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux.

Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une litière
Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux;
L'âme d'un vieux poète erre dans la gouttière
Avec la triste voix d'un fantôme frileux.

Le bourdon se lamente, et la bûche enfumée
Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhumée
Cependant qu'en un jeu plein de sales parfums,

Héritage fatal d'une vieille hydropique,
Le beau valet de coeur et la dame de pique
Causent sinistrement de leurs amours défunts.

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Maybe Baudelaire doesn't make me happy, but he makes me the kind of good, sweet, sad that I have come to love.