La Mort des artistes

The end is nigh, maybe 3 or 4 more posts and then I am off. Where? Nowhere, not for awhile. Lazy summer has returned and I find myself hopelessly unwilling to do any kind of productive labor. I am a bit unhappy with his imminent ten-day departure but I suppose I will have to get over that if I am to somehow live without him for months on end. Three months and counting and we have never slept apart, no matter how many late drunken nights or all-day sailing voyages. But I have not grown familiar or complacent; he continues to surprise me with his kindness and infinite mercy, his genuine love of my soul, and his animal passion. Oh, Apollo, why give me this great gift only to have it ripped away? I start and stammer about nothing but him, him, him but all the footwork is done and I have little to occupy myself save for some packing, paperwork and bickering.

Sometimes I think to the one who came at the beginning of all this, who earned my dedication, and who left me unwilling, cynical and miserable. He is happy, it seems and for once I don't grudge him any of that. What would have been the end of all this? Nothing. If the Other One is willing to go through such pains for him then by all means they should love and multiply. A year ago I said I would do anything for him but now I know better. The one I have is perfect beyond measure and I thank everyone and everything for this blessing. From holding my hand in the hospital to buying little souvenirs when he is away at sea, his love comes through and I cherish it above all other things.

The Death of the Artists
How many times must I shake my bells
And kiss your low brow, dreary caricature?
In order to hit the target, of mystical nature,
How many javelins, oh my quiver, must you lose?

We will wear out our soul in subtle intrigues,
And we will demolish many a heavy frame,
Before contemplating the great Creature
Whose infernal desire fills us with sobs!

There are those who have never known their Idol,
And these sculptors damned and marked with an affront,
Who go hammering breast and brow,

Have only one hope, strange and somber Capitol!
It is that Death, gliding like a new sun,
Will make the flowers of their mind open!

La Mort des artistes
Combien faut-il de fois secouer mes grelots
Et baiser ton front bas, morne caricature?
Pour piquer dans le but, de mystique nature,
Combien, ô mon carquois, perdre de javelots?

Nous userons notre âme en de subtils complots,
Et nous démolirons mainte lourde armature,
Avant de contempler la grande Créature
Dont l'infernal désir nous remplit de sanglots!

Il en est qui jamais n'ont connu leur Idole,
Et ces sculpteurs damnés et marqués d'un affront,
Qui vont se martelant la poitrine et le front,

N'ont qu'un espoir, étrange et sombre Capitole!
C'est que la Mort, planant comme un soleil nouveau,
Fera s'épanouir les fleurs de leur cerveau!
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In the face of uncertainty I pray for my family. I can only hope that their lifelong devotion to the Almighty provides them with solace in this time of need.

My unhealthy flowers are wilting, and they will be dead within days.