L'Héautontimorouménos

Beautiful. Now too much pain, right.

The Self-Tormentor

To J.G.F.

I will strike you without anger
And without hatred, like a butcher,
Like Moses the rock
And I will make from your eyelid,

In order to water my Sahara
The water of suffering flow.
My desire, swollen with hope
Floats upon your salty tears

Like a vessel that takes to sea,
And in my heart that they will make drunk,
Your dear sobs will ring
Like a drum that beats the charge!

Am I not a false chord
In the divine symphony,
Thanks to the voracious Irony
That shakes me and bites me?

She is in my voice, the squalling!
That is all my blood, this black poison!
I am the sinister mirror
Where the Megaera looks upon herself.

I am the wound and the blade!
I am the blow and the cheek!
I am the members and the wheel,
And the victim and the hangman!

I am the vampire of my heart,
—One of these great forsaken
Condemned to the eternal laughter
And who can no longer smile!

L'Héautontimorouménos

À J.G.F.

Je te frapperai sans colère
Et sans haine, comme un boucher,
Comme Moïse le rocher
Et je ferai de ta paupière,

Pour abreuver mon Saharah
Jaillir les eaux de la souffrance.
Mon désir gonflé d'espérance
Sur tes pleurs salés nagera

Comme un vaisseau qui prend le large,
Et dans mon coeur qu'ils soûleront
Tes chers sanglots retentiront
Comme un tambour qui bat la charge!

Ne suis-je pas un faux accord
Dans la divine symphonie,
Grâce à la vorace Ironie
Qui me secoue et qui me mord

Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde!
C'est tout mon sang ce poison noir!
Je suis le sinistre miroir
Où la mégère se regarde.

Je suis la plaie et le couteau!
Je suis le soufflet et la joue!
Je suis les membres et la roue,
Et la victime et le bourreau!

Je suis de mon coeur le vampire,
— Un de ces grands abandonnés
Au rire éternel condamnés
Et qui ne peuvent plus sourire!

Recueillement

I am done with Spleen et Ideal, but now I need to get these all up before the end of the year. I am off to the south circa 9 pm this evening. Love, love. It's too cold here. I feel better, right. More relieved. I guess that comes from never having to see certain people ever again.

Contemplation
Be wise, oh my Grief, and have more peace.
You asked for the Evening; it descends; here it is:
A dark atmosphere envelops the city,
Carrying peace to some, to others concern.

While the foul multitude of mortals,
Under the whip of Pleasure, this merciless hangman,
Goes gathering remorse in the slavish celebration,
My Grief, give me your hand; come here,

Far from them. See the lost Years bend,
Over the balconies of heaven, in outdated robes;
Smiling Regret springing from the depths of the waters;

The dying sun sleeps under an arch,
And, trails to the East like a long shroud,
Listen, my beloved, listen to the sweet Night walking.

Recueillement
Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici:
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.

Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,

Loin d'eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;

Le soleil moribond s'endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l'Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.

---

The next three poems are longish and signify the end.

Le Gouffre/Les Plaintes d'un Icare

Winter kills but the solstice should bring new life. If the last few months have taught me anything it is that I should not be in the public eye. I told him "tread with a light foot and a quiet look" but somehow I managed to ignore my own advice. The Moon has left me here, taking his nothingness and his translucent eyes back to the North where one would argue that he belongs. And what, and what then? I cried for a long time, a long long time. I told him not to fear aging and to shine like I knew that he could. Someday he will return but I will be no longer. Off to a warm atmosphere where people care about the changes that I want to bring. It's been nearly three weeks since my Hell began and I am praying that it ends before I do. Please, I implore your mercy, you the only one that I love.

The Abyss
Pascal had his abyss, it moved with him.
—Alas! All is abysmal—action, desire, dream,
Speech! And on my hair which stands up straight
I feel the wind of Fear pass many times.

On high, down below, everywhere, the depth, the shore,
The silence, the awful and captivating space…
On the background of my nights God with his skillful finger
Draws a nightmare, multiform and without respite.

I have the fear of sleep like one has fear of a great hole,
All full of vague horror, leads one where he knows not,
I see only infinity through all the windows,

And my spirit, all haunted by vertigo,
Is jealous of the insensitivity of nothingness.
—Ah! Never to take leave of the Numbers and the Beings!

Le Gouffre
Pascal avait son gouffre, avec lui se mouvant.
— Hélas! tout est abîme, — action, désir, rêve,
Parole! Et sur mon poil qui tout droit se relève
Mainte fois de la Peur je sens passer le vent.

En haut, en bas, partout, la profondeur, la grève,
Le silence, l'espace affreux et captivant...
Sur le fond de mes nuits Dieu de son doigt savant
Dessine un cauchemar multiforme et sans trêve.

J'ai peur du sommeil comme on a peur d'un grand trou,
Tout plein de vague horreur, menant on ne sait où;
Je ne vois qu'infini par toutes les fenêtres,

Et mon esprit, toujours du vertige hanté,
Jalouse du néant l'insensibilité.
— Ah! ne jamais sortir des Nombres et des Êtres!

The Complaints of an Icarus
The lovers of prostitutes
Are happy, fresh and satiated,
As for me, my arms are broken
Having embraced the clouds.

It is thanks to the unequaled stars,
Which all blaze in the depths of the sky,
That my burned-up eyes see
Only the memories of suns.

In vain I have desired in the space
To find the end and the middle;
I do not know under what fiery eye
I feel my wings break;

And burned by the love of the beautiful,
I will not have the sublime honor
Of giving my name to the abyss
That will serve me as a tomb.

Les Plaintes d'un Icare
Les amants des prostituées
Sont heureux, dispos et repus;
Quant à moi, mes bras sont rompus
Pour avoir étreint des nuées.

C'est grâce aux astres nonpareils,
Qui tout au fond du ciel flamboient,
Que mes yeux consumés ne voient
Que des souvenirs de soleils.

En vain j'ai voulu de l'espace
Trouver la fin et le milieu;
Sous je ne sais quel oeil de feu
Je sens mon aile qui se casse;

Et brûlé par l'amour du beau,
Je n'aurai pas l'honneur sublime
De donner mon nom à l'abîme
Qui me servira de tombeau.
---

I mourned his loss over cough syrup and humiliation. Now devoid of most of my hearing and more or less all of my hindsight. To M. I said I was sorry and that I felt the crippling feeling of injustice over his departure. Lies, lies. I rejoice in his fall, ha ha. They say that hell hath no fury and by gods, they are right.

Sur Le Tasse en prison d'Eugène Delacroix

Oh moon of my life, sleep in my bed and forget about me. I said I loved you and it may or may not be true depending on how I feel at any given moment. I know that you would love me if you were capable of loving anyone at all. I heard what you said last night and it made sense. It just didn't make me happy. The world has turned. I don't like these feelings. I miss you already and I never wanted to.

Now something almost completely unrelated.

On Tasso in Prison by Eugene Delacroix
The poet in the dungeon, disheveled, sickly,
Nervously rolling a manuscript under his foot,
Measures with a look that terror enflames
The staircase of vertigo where his soul is broken.

The heady laughs that fill the prison
Invite his reason toward the strange and absurd;
Doubt surrounds him, and ludicrous Fear,
Hideous and multiform, circles around him.

This genius locked up in a sick hovel,
These grimaces, these cries, these specters that swarm him
Swirl, assembled behind his ear,

This dreamer who the horror of his dwelling awakens,
So that is your emblem, soul in obscure dreams,
Which the Actual smothered between its four walls.


Sur Le Tasse en prison d'Eugène Delacroix
Le poète au cachot, débraillé, maladif,
Roulant un manuscrit sous son pied convulsif,
Mesure d'un regard que la terreur enflamme
L'escalier de vertige où s'abîme son âme.

Les rires enivrants dont s'emplit la prison
Vers l'étrange et l'absurde invitent sa raison;
Le Doute l'environne, et la Peur ridicule,
Hideuse et multiforme, autour de lui circule.

Ce génie enfermé dans un taudis malsain,
Ces grimaces, ces cris, ces spectres dont l'essaim
Tourbillonne, ameuté derrière son oreille,

Ce rêveur que l'horreur de son logis réveille,
Voilà bien ton emblème, Âme aux songes obscurs,
Que le Réel étouffe entre ses quatre murs!
---

Last afternoon we leaned our hips against the railing on the Great Hall and listened to the warbled cries of the youngest ones. They sang with the optimism that can only come with ignorance and glimpses of the beauty in this world. They were both there and so was I. Nothing to do. It brought a chill to the crowd as we all joined metaphorical hands and longed for streams of water and praised the newly-born Savior. It was the way it should have been.

For once it is love and longing that chokes my throat and not rage.

Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique

Where is your happiness, your joy and your light? Around this time of year everyone breaks and my co-dependent ways spring into action. Suicide, sex and stupidity...we all become one and we then we fall. I don't know what to do or say or think. I want to break down too but I cannot. I wanted to build myself as a symbol of hope and stability. For once I can shake the taste of the past.

I loved you for your emptiness and your fear of aging but now I think that I cannot. Not when you told me to leave you be. Instead I drink and laugh and fall onto the hard dirt of my own bad decisions. I love you, I love you, but this cannot be. You cannot love. That's okay. The sun sets, I rise and you fall down.

The Setting of the Romantic Sun
How the sun is beautiful when it is newly risen,
He throws his greetings to us like an explosion!
—Blessed is that one who can with love
Salute his setting more glorious than a dream!

I remember!…I have seen all, flower, spring, furrow,
Swooning under his eye like a palpitating heart…
—Let us run toward the horizon, it is late, let us run quickly,
To catch at least a slanting ray!

But I vainly pursue the retreating God;
Irresistible Night establishes his empire,
Dark, damp, grievous and full of shivers;

An odor of the tomb swims in the dark,
At my fearful foot crumples, on the edge of the marsh,
Unpredicted toads and chilly snails.


Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique
Que le soleil est beau quand tout frais il se lève,
Comme une explosion nous lançant son bonjour!
— Bienheureux celui-là qui peut avec amour
Saluer son coucher plus glorieux qu'un rêve!

Je me souviens!... J'ai vu tout, fleur, source, sillon,
Se pâmer sous son oeil comme un coeur qui palpite...
— Courons vers l'horizon, il est tard, courons vite,
Pour attraper au moins un oblique rayon!

Mais je poursuis en vain le Dieu qui se retire;
L'irrésistible Nuit établit son empire,
Noire, humide, funeste et pleine de frissons;

Une odeur de tombeau dans les ténèbres nage,
Et mon pied peureux froisse, au bord du marécage,
Des crapauds imprévus et de froids limaçons.
---

Chase the gods, you fools. Their friends are marrying and giving birth. Mine kill themselves and rape one another. What.

La Rançon/Bien loin d'ici

Yesterday we talked like humans...all three of us. Together for the first time since we congregated in the sweltering sympathy of August. Fortune has not smiled upon them, less so on one than the other. For one the anger has passed and is replaced by affectionate apathy. Toward the other the rage rears its head every now and again. We spoke of trials and victories, drunken stupors and a Refusal to Mourn. He understood. Where before he had treated my imposition as agenda, now it just came across as an unfortunate result of circumstance. I wish I had not wasted so much time being angry. One week to go before he disappears probably forever.

I am finding there is a difference between the oppression the world throws at you and the ennui that happens inside. I don't really like either.

The Ransom
Man has, in order to pay his ransom,
Two fields of tuff, deep and rich,
That he must turn over and cultivate
With the iron of reason;

In order to obtain the lesser rose,
In order to extort a few ears of corn,
With the salted tears of his dreary brow
He must water them ceaselessly.

One is Art, and the other is Love.
—To produce a favorable judge,
When of strict justice
The terrible day will appear,

He must show them barns
Full of crops, and flowers
Whose shapes and colors
Win the suffrage of the Angels.

La Rançon
L'homme a, pour payer sa rançon,
Deux champs au tuf profond et riche,
Qu'il faut qu'il remue et défriche
Avec le fer de la raison;

Pour obtenir la moindre rose,
Pour extorquer quelques épis,
Des pleurs salés de son front gris
Sans cesse il faut qu'il les arrose.

L'un est l'Art, et l'autre l'Amour.
— Pour rendre le juge propice,
Lorsque de la stricte justice
Paraîtra le terrible jour,

Il faudra lui montrer des granges
Pleines de moissons, et des fleurs
Dont les formes et les couleurs
Gagnent le suffrage des Anges.


Very Far From Here
This here is the sacred cabin
Where that much arrayed maiden,
Tranquil and ever prepared,

Fanning her breasts with her hand,
Her elbow in the cushions,
Listens to the fountains crying:

This is Dorothy’s bedroom.
—The breeze and the water sing in the distance,
Their song colliding with sobs
In order to cradle that spoiled child.

From top to bottom, with great care
Her delicate skin is scrubbed
With fragrant oil and benzoin.
—From the flowers that swoon in a corner.

Bien loin d'ici
C'est ici la case sacrée
Où cette fille très parée,
Tranquille et toujours préparée,

D'une main éventant ses seins,
Et son coude dans les coussins,
Écoute pleurer les bassins:

C'est la chambre de Dorothée.
— La brise et l'eau chantent au loin
Leur chanson de sanglots heurtée
Pour bercer cette enfant gâtée.

Du haut en bas, avec grand soin.
Sa peau délicate est frottée
D'huile odorante et de benjoin.
— Des fleurs se pâment dans un coin.
---

I need to get out of here too.

Le Jet d'eau

And real death makes fake death feel stranger.

The Water Fountain
Your beautiful eyes are weary, poor love!
Rest a long time, without reopening them,
In that nonchalant pose
Where pleasure has surprised you.
In the courtyard the fountain of water which babbles,
And keeps quiet neither night nor day,
Sweetly supports the ecstasy
Wherein love has plunged me this evening.

The bouquet blooms
Into a thousand flowers,
Where cheerful Phoebe
Puts her colors,
Falls like a shower
Of large tears.

Thus your soul that burns
In the blazing flash of passion,
That dashes forward, fast and bold,
Toward the great enchanted heavens.
But then it pours forth, dying,
In a wave of sad languor,
That by an invisible slope
Descends down to the bottom of my heart.

The bouquet blooms
Into a thousand flowers,
Where cheerful Phoebe
Puts her colors,
Falls like a shower
Of large tears.

Oh you, who the night renders so beautiful,
It is sweet to me, leaning on your breasts,
To hear the eternal lament
Which sobs in the fountains!
Moon, echoing water, blessed night,
Trees that shiver around us,
Your pure melancholy
Is the mirror of my love.

The bouquet blooms
Into a thousand flowers,
Where cheerful Phoebe
Puts her colors,
Falls like a shower
Of large tears.

Le Jet d'eau
Tes beaux yeux sont las, pauvre amante!
Reste longtemps, sans les rouvrir,
Dans cette pose nonchalante
Où t'a surprise le plaisir.
Dans la cour le jet d'eau qui jase,
Et ne se tait ni nuit ni jour,
Entretient doucement l'extase
Où ce soir m'a plongé l'amour.

La gerbe épanouie
En mille fleurs,
Où Phoebé réjouie
Met ses couleurs,
Tombe comme une pluie
De larges pleurs.

Ainsi ton âme qu'incendie
L'éclair brûlant des voluptés
S'élance, rapide et hardie,
Vers les vastes cieux enchantés.
Puis elle s'épanche, mourante,
En un flot de triste langueur,
Qui par une invisible pente
Descend jusqu'au fond de mon coeur.

La gerbe épanouie
En mille fleurs,
Où Phoebé réjouie
Met ses couleurs,
Tombe comme une pluie
De larges pleurs.

Ô toi, que la nuit rend si belle,
Qu'il m'est doux, penché vers tes seins,
D'écouter la plainte éternelle
Qui sanglote dans les bassins!
Lune, eau sonore, nuit bénie,
Arbres qui frissonnez autour,
Votre pure mélancolie
Est le miroir de mon amour.

La gerbe épanouie
En mille fleurs,
Où Phoebé réjouie
Met ses couleurs,
Tombe comme une pluie
De larges pleurs.
---

I am never alone. And for once this is making me unhappy.

Les Yeux de Berthe

We are tired and in terrible moods. Last night we mourned with a bottle of wine and a few vague memories. Now she is afraid to keep on living. I don't know what to think, what to say. Everything that comes out of my mouth is stupid.

"I love you and will always love you and I could not put into words how to describe what you do to me when you think about death."

Too late now, on so many levels.

Sleep and smoke to your will. I have no reason to do otherwise.

The Eyes of Berthe
You can scorn the most celebrated eyes,
Beautiful eyes of my child, where filters and flies
A certain good something, sweet like Night!
Beautiful eyes, pour over me your delightful darkness!

Beautiful eyes of my child, mysteries adored,
You greatly resemble these magic grottos
Where, behind the heap of sluggish shadows,
Neglected treasures sparkle faintly!

My child has unlit eyes, deep and extensive,
Like you, great Night, clear like you!
Their fires are these thoughts of Love, mixed with Faith,
That sparkle in the depths, sultry or celibate.

Les Yeux de Berthe
Vous pouvez mépriser les yeux les plus célèbres,
Beaux yeux de mon enfant, par où filtre et s'enfuit
Je ne sais quoi de bon, de doux comme la Nuit!
Beaux yeux, versez sur moi vos charmantes ténèbres!

Grands yeux de mon enfant, arcanes adorés,
Vous ressemblez beaucoup à ces grottes magiques
Où, derrière l'amas des ombres léthargiques,
Scintillent vaguement des trésors ignorés!

Mon enfant a des yeux obscurs, profonds et vastes,
Comme toi, Nuit immense, éclairés comme toi!
Leurs feux sont ces pensers d'Amour, mêlés de Foi,
Qui pétillent au fond, voluptueux ou chastes.
---

Happy birthday, venal muse. May you eternally frolic in the solitude of someone else's heart.

Le Rebelle

And here it is. I would have thought this moment would have been about counting the painful-yet-oddly-triumphant episodes of Saturday past. Little questions, no answers, just guesses. Rehashing, relapsing, and love bites underneath the sullen sheets that protect us from the elements and the consequences of our actions. But no.

Young life is lost, love. Gone, gone, gone. I hate the universe and my own selfishness. Pray for the family of the departed. No names here, not ever. But pray.

The Rebel
A furious Angel pounces from the sky like an eagle,
Grabs a fistful of the miscreant’s hair,
And said, shaking him: “You will know the rule!
(Because I am your good Angel, do you hear?) I wish it!

Know that he must love, without grimacing,
The poor, the malicious, the deformed, the stupid,
So that you can make for Jesus, when he passes,
A triumphant carpet with your charity.

Such is Love! Before your heart becomes indifferent,
Rekindle your ecstasy in the glory of God;
It is the true Pleasure with the enduring charms!”

And the Angel, chastising as much, my faith! That he loves,
Torments the anathema with his giant fists;
But the damned one still responds: “I will not!”

Le Rebelle
Un Ange furieux fond du ciel comme un aigle,
Du mécréant saisit à plein poing les cheveux,
Et dit, le secouant: «Tu connaîtras la règle!
(Car je suis ton bon Ange, entends-tu?) Je le veux!

Sache qu'il faut aimer, sans faire la grimace,
Le pauvre, le méchant, le tortu, l'hébété,
Pour que tu puisses faire à Jesus, quand il passe,
Un tapis triomphal avec ta charité.

Tel est l'Amour! Avant que ton coeur ne se blase,
À la gloire de Dieu rallume ton extase;
C'est la Volupté vraie aux durables appas!»

Et l'Ange, châtiant autant, ma foi! qu'il aime,
De ses poings de géant torture 1'anathème;
Mais le damné répond toujours: «Je ne veux pas!»
---

And then let me sing of you in a new way. Go into the universe. I hope you find it safe and warm.

Hymne

For the first time in about 7 years, no real prospects and no real anxiety. The LSAT yes, but that's healthy and encouraged. I am something better, and they could care less. I don't need the most important test of my life to be overshadowed by someone with no brains and too much attitude. Panic Attack Part Deux last night but my friends are lovely and they will always see me through. Cigarettes, chocolate cake, and sympathy. Love, love, love. This morning is brighter, for once I am not wearing black or grey.

Been working out more, burning the calories and the midnight oil. I have forgotten how skinny I am under the layers of clothes I wear everywhere and all the time. But I still want my warm atmosphere.

And a little bit of positivity from our good friend Baudelaire!

Hymn
To the much beloved, to the very beautiful
Who fills my heart with light,
To the angel, to immortal idol,
Salutation in immortality!

She pours into my life
Like air imbued with salt,
And into my insatiable soul
Pours the taste of the eternal.

Ever-fresh sachet that perfumes
The atmosphere of a beloved nook,
Forgotten censer that smokes
In secret through the night,

How, incorruptible love,
Can I express you truthfully?
Speck of musk that lies, invisible,
In the depth of my eternity!

To the very good, to the very beautiful
Who causes my joy and my health,
To the angel, to the immortal idol,
Salutation in immortality!

Hymne
À la très chère, à la très belle
Qui remplit mon coeur de clarté,
À l'ange, À l'idole immortelle,
Salut en l'immortalité!

Elle se répand dans ma vie
Comme un air imprégné de sel,
Et dans mon âme inassouvie
Verse le goût de l'éternel.

Sachet toujours frais qui parfume
L'atmosphère d'un cher réduit,
Encensoir oublié qui fume
En secret à travers la nuit,

Comment, amour incorruptible,
T'exprimer avec vérité?
Grain de musc qui gis, invisible,
Au fond de mon éternité!

À la très bonne, à la très belle
Qui fait ma joie et ma santé,
À l'ange, à l'idole immortelle,
Salut en l'immortalité!

La Voix

Tired, worried. I miss being beautiful. My skin was made for sunlight and my hair for warm climates. Not this bullshit.

The Voice
My cradle leaned against the library,
Sullen Babel, novels, science, fabliau,
Everything, Latin cinder and Greek dust,
Mingled. I was as tall as a folio.
Two voices spoke to me. The one, firm and insidious,
Said: “The Earth is a pastry full of sweetness;
I can (and your pleasure would be so without end!)
Make you an appetite of equal size.”
And the other: “Come! Oh! Come travel in dreams,
Beyond the possible, beyond the known!”
And that one sang like the wind of the strands,
Crying phantom, one knows not where it came from,
Who caresses the ear and yet frightens it.
I answered you: “Yes! Sweet voice!” It is from
That time that one can, alas! Name my wound
And my fatality. Behind the façade
Of immense existence, in the blackest part of the abyss,
I distinctly see unusual worlds,
And ecstatic victim of my clairvoyance,
I drag along the serpents that bite my shoes.
And it is since this time, similar to the prophets,
I love so tenderly the desert and the sea;
I laugh in the mourning and cry in the festivities,
And search for a sweet taste in the bitterest of wine;
That I take very often the facts for the lies,
And that, eyes in the heavens, I fall into holes.
But the voice consoles me and says: “Guard your dreams:
Sages do not have so beautiful ones as fools!”

La Voix
Mon berceau s'adossait à la bibliothèque,
Babel sombre, où roman, science, fabliau,
Tout, la cendre latine et la poussière grecque,
Se mêlaient. J'était haut comme un in-folio.
Deux voix me parlaient. L'une, insidieuse et ferme,
Disait: «La Terre est un gâteau plein de douceur;
Je puis (et ton plaisir serait alors sans terme!)
Te faire un appétit d'une égale grosseur.»
Et l'autre: «Viens! oh! viens voyager dans les rêves,
Au delà du possible, au delà du connu!»
Et celle-là chantait comme le vent des grèves,
Fantôme vagissant, on ne sait d'où venu,
Qui caresse l'oreille et cependant l'effraie.
Je te répondis: «Oui! douce voix!» C'est d'alors
Que date ce qu'on peut, hélas! nommer ma plaie
Et ma fatalité. Derrière les décors
De l'existence immense, au plus noir de l'abîme,
Je vois distinctement des mondes singuliers,
Et, de ma clairvoyance extatique victime,
Je traîne des serpents qui mordent mes souliers.
Et c'est depuis ce temps que, pareil aux prophètes,
J'aime si tendrement le désert et la mer;
Que je ris dans les deuils et pleure dans les fêtes,
Et trouve un goût suave au vin le plus amer;
Que je prends très souvent les faits pour des mensonges,
Et que, les yeux au ciel, je tombe dans des trous.
Mais la voix me console et dit: «Garde tes songes:
Les sages n'en ont pas d'aussi beaux que les fous!»
---

Wish I could feel something besides blah.

À une Malabaraise

Lack of sleep has prevented me from participating in life as it is meant to be experienced. I am tired all the time. The LSATs are on Saturday and all I want to do is watch movies with cute boys and nap all day. I don't care. Seasonal affective disorder is getting to me. I have decided that while I am angsty pretty much all the time this is a new sort. This is not self-imposed. Mostly I am just cold all the fucking time and that puts me in a permanent bad mood. I also do not like being a punching bag for every stupid little drama that waltzes into a certain special someone's life.

I need a warm atmosphere. And here's one in theory...

To a Woman of Malabar
Your feet are as slender as your hands, and your hips
Are broad and make the prettiest white woman envious;
To the thoughtful artist your body is soft and dear;
Your great velvet eyes are darker than your flesh.
In the country warm and blue where God has given rise to you,
Your task is to light the pipe of your master,
To fill the flasks with cold water and perfumes,
To chase the prowling mosquitoes far from his bed,
And, as soon as morning makes the plane trees sing,

To buy at the bazaar pineapples and bananas,
All day, wherever you want, you lead your naked feet,
And lowly you hum old unknown tunes;
And when evening descends in a mantel of scarlet,
You lay your body sweetly on a mat,
Where your flowing dreams are full of hummingbirds,
And always, like you, gracious and flourishing.

Why, happy child, do you wish to see our France?
This overpopulated country that suffering knocks down,
And, entrusting your life to the strong arms of the sea,
Make great farewells to your dear tamarinds?
You, half-dressed in fragile muslins,
Shivering there under the snow and the hail,
Like you would mourn your sweet and total pleasures
If, with the brutal corset imprisoning your sides
You had to gather your supper in our sludge
And sell the perfume of your strange charms,
Thoughtful eye, following, in our dirty fog,
The scattered phantoms of the coconut trees!

À une Malabaraise
Tes pieds sont aussi fins que tes mains, et ta hanche
Est large à faire envie à la plus belle blanche;
À l'artiste pensif ton corps est doux et cher;
Tes grands yeux de velours sont plus noirs que ta chair.
Aux pays chauds et bleus où ton Dieu t'a fait naître,
Ta tâche est d'allumer la pipe de ton maître,
De pourvoir les flacons d'eaux fraîches et d'odeurs,
De chasser loin du lit les moustiques rôdeurs,
Et, dès que le matin fait chanter les platanes,

D'acheter au bazar ananas et bananes.
Tout le jour, où tu veux, tu mènes tes pieds nus,
Et fredonnes tout bas de vieux airs inconnus;
Et quand descend le soir au manteau d'écarlate,
Tu poses doucement ton corps sur une natte,
Où tes rêves flottants sont pleins de colibris,
Et toujours, comme toi, gracieux et fleuris.

Pourquoi, l'heureuse enfant, veux-tu voir notre France,
Ce pays trop peuplé que fauche la souffrance,
Et, confiant ta vie aux bras forts des marins,
Faire de grands adieux à tes chers tamarins?
Toi, vêtue à moitié de mousselines frêles,
Frissonnante là-bas sous la neige et les grêles,
Comme tu pleurerais tes loisirs doux et francs
Si, le corset brutal emprisonnant tes flancs
Il te fallait glaner ton souper dans nos fanges
Et vendre le parfum de tes charmes étranges,
Oeil pensif, et suivant, dans nos sales brouillards,
Des cocotiers absents les fantômes épars!
---

Almost done with the Spleen et Ideal section. We've come a long way, baby.

L'Avertisseur

I hate you for being a stupid boy. And I hate myself for caring. I hope you die a thousand times.

The Alarm
All men worthy of this name
Have a yellow Serpent in their heart,
Installed as on a throne,
Who, if he says: “I will,” responds: “No!”

Plunge your eyes into the fixed eyes
Of Satyrs or of Nymphs,
The Fang says: “Think to your duty!”

Make children, plant trees,
Polish verses, sculpt marble,
The Fang says: “Will you live this evening?”

Whatever he plans or he hopes,
Man will not live a moment
Without enduring the warning
Of the insufferable Viper.

L'Avertisseur
Tout homme digne de ce nom
A dans le coeur un Serpent jaune,
Installé comme sur un trône,
Qui, s'il dit: «Je veux,» répond: «Non!»

Plonge tes yeux dans les yeux fixes
Des Satyresses ou des Nixes,
La Dent dit: «Pense à ton devoir!»

Fais des enfants, plante des arbres,
Polis des vers, sculpte des marbres,
La Dent dit: «Vivras-tu ce soir?»

Quoi qu'il ébauche ou qu'il espère,
L'homme ne vit pas un moment
Sans subir l'avertissement
De l'insupportable Vipère.
---

No point in hiding it, you all know what I mean. Fuck this. Fuck this so hard. I would give up but I don't know how.