La Destruction

It is at times like these when I hope and pray that there is something, anything wrong with me and my body so that the anger and hatred I feel sometimes is not a result of my own weakening resolve. The two month mark has come and gone and as I think about the south I get a little nervous and impatient with him. Boys will be boys even when they are technically men. Too much beer and estrogen, not enough calories in my blood. Warm weather will meet us on Saturday and we will take to the sea. Please, Apollo, let the anger fade. I miss my family, miss my sister, I will miss my love and my home. But for the love of all that is good and fucking holy please let this building implode during the night. Sycophancy and inanity bore into my skull like the sounds of hell, and the indicative noises make me shrivel inside. Fuck fuck fuck.

Destruction
The Demon shakes ceaselessly at my side;
He swims around me like an intangible air;
I swallow him and feel he who burns my lungs
And fills them with an eternal and shameful desire.

Sometimes he takes, knowing my great love of Art,
The form of the most seductive women,
And, under specious pretexts of a hypocrite,
Accustoms my lips to the despicable potions.

Thus he takes me, far from the gaze of God,
Panting and broken with fatigue,
Onto the plains of Ennui, deep and deserted,

And throws into my confusion-filled eyes
Soiled clothing, open wounds,
And the bloody devices of Destruction!

La Destruction
Sans cesse à mes côtés s'agite le Démon;
II nage autour de moi comme un air impalpable;
Je l'avale et le sens qui brûle mon poumon
Et l'emplit d'un désir éternel et coupable.

Parfois il prend, sachant mon grand amour de l'Art,
La forme de la plus séduisante des femmes,
Et, sous de spécieux prétextes de cafard,
Accoutume ma lèvre à des philtres infâmes.

II me conduit ainsi, loin du regard de Dieu,
Haletant et brisé de fatigue, au milieu
Des plaines de l'Ennui, profondes et désertes,

Et jette dans mes yeux pleins de confusion
Des vêtements souillés, des blessures ouvertes,
Et l'appareil sanglant de la Destruction!
---
Enfer is a symphony of creaking stairs, mumbles, and odd whispery little gasps. No! Wait. That's this god-forsaken place.

Épigraphe pour un livre condamné

Residual respect for the risen Savior, Sunday morning. I was not impressed. All these months spent with the chilling imagery of the unfeeling Catholic church had left me with expectations, expectations that the local WASP-y Mass did not meet. But I bear them no ill will. Easter was cold and bright and sad. But seasons change and so do we. Late night visits and grocery store I-love-yous keep me alive and optimistic. Leaving him will be hard but doable. I prepare myself for it every day and then I forget. Moving on and on and on.

Baudelaire opens Fleurs du Mal with a lost poem about a condemned book. I cannot yet gauge the tone of this section, but it seems to be more in the spirit of Spleen than anything else I have seen thus far.

Epigraph for a Condemned Book
Peaceful and pastoral reader,
Sober and naïve good man,
Throw away this saturnine book,
Orgiastic and melancholy.

If you have not done your rhetoric
With Satan, the crafty dean,
Throw it away! You will understand nothing,
Or you will think me hysterical.

But if, without letting itself be charmed,
Your eye knows to plunge into the abyss,
Read me, learn to love me;

Curious soul who suffers
And looks for your paradise,
Pity me! …Or else I curse you!

Épigraphe pour un livre condamné
Lecteur paisible et bucolique,
Sobre et naïf homme de bien,
Jette ce livre saturnien,
Orgiaque et mélancolique.

Si tu n'as fait ta rhétorique
Chez Satan, le rusé doyen,
Jette! tu n'y comprendrais rien,
Ou tu me croirais hysthérique.

Mais si, sans se laisser charmer,
Ton oeil sait plonger dans les gouffres,
Lis-moi, pour apprendre à m'aimer;

Âme curieuse qui souffres
Et vas cherchant ton paradis,
Plains-moi!... Sinon, je te maudis!

---
Tuesday morning rains and grows cold like my body. Weird aversions and plastic buttons, I don't understand. I am the only one. I want to finish this project. But where is all my time?

Le Vin des amants

Tired. Pissy. Last night was love. Today makes me remember why I used to hate everything that moved. Ah so it goes.

The Lovers' Wine
Today space is splendid!
Without bit, without spurs, without bridle,
Let us go astride the wine
To a divine and enchanted sky!

Like two angels tortured
By an unrelenting fever
In the crystal blue of morning
Let us follow the distant mirage!

Idly balanced on the wing
Of the intelligent whirlwind,
In a parallel delirium,

My sister, swimming side by side,
We will flee without rest or respite
Towards the paradise of my dreams!

Le Vin des amants
Aujourd'hui l'espace est splendide!
Sans mors, sans éperons, sans bride,
Partons à cheval sur le vin
Pour un ciel féerique et divin!

Comme deux anges que torture
Une implacable calenture
Dans le bleu cristal du matin
Suivons le mirage lointain!

Mollement balancés sur l'aile
Du tourbillon intelligent,
Dans un délire parallèle,

Ma soeur, côte à côte nageant,
Nous fuirons sans repos ni trêves
Vers le paradis de mes rêves!
---
Things are changing.

Le Vin du solitaire

These things will never cease to surprise me and right now all I fear is his absence. My body is back to the way it was when I was loved and celebrated. We still wait for summer.

The Solitary's Wine
The peculiar look of a courtesan
Which slips towards us like a white ray
That the undulating moon throws on a trembling lake,
When she wants to bathe her nonchalant beauty;

The last bag of coins in the fingers of a gambler;
A libertine kiss from skinny Adeline;
The sounds of music irritating and affectionate,
Like to the distant cry of human sorrow,

All that is not worth, oh deep bottle,
The penetrating balms that your fertile belly
Guards for the faded heart of the pious poet;

You pour hope for him, youth and life,
—And pride, this treasure of all poverty,
Which renders us triumphant and like to Gods!

Le Vin du solitaire
Le regard singulier d'une femme galante
Qui se glisse vers nous comme le rayon blanc
Que la lune onduleuse envoie au lac tremblant,
Quand elle y veut baigner sa beauté nonchalante;

Le dernier sac d'écus dans les doigts d'un joueur;
Un baiser libertin de la maigre Adeline;
Les sons d'une musique énervante et câline,
Semblable au cri lointain de l'humaine douleur,

Tout cela ne vaut pas, ô bouteille profonde,
Les baumes pénétrants que ta panse féconde
Garde au coeur altéré du poète pieux;

Tu lui verses l'espoir, la jeunesse et la vie,
— Et l'orgueil, ce trésor de toute gueuserie,
Qui nous rend triomphants et semblables aux Dieux!
---
Preemptive sorrow. I feel it. Never mind.
Happy birthday, Mon. Baudelaire! Your poetry lives.

Le Vin de l'assassin

Last night I lost touch with my body, despite the hands that cradled me. The world has turned back to ice and we slummed along, wrapped up in too many things. We saw our future home and he spoke of the great adventures we will surely have while I lingered outside and discussed my imminent future with some faceless being. Skin touches skin and I love him more and more each day. Bedtime came and I was interrupted by my past and horrible thoughts of ever having to be without him. He held me close and said:

"Don't think about that. As far as I am concerned I will be here forever."

I cried and cried. Not because I am unhappy but because I have never felt stranger and funnier in my entire existence. Gods.

The Murderer's Wine
My wife is dead, I am free!
Therefore I can drink my fill.
When I returned without any money,
Her cries tore me to fibers.

I am as happy as a king;
The air is clear, the sky admirable…
We had a similar summer
When I fell in love!

The horrible thirst that tears me
I would have needed, in order to satisfy it
As much wine as could be held
In her tomb; —there is not much to say:

I have thrown her into the bottom of a well,
And I have even pushed over her
All the stones of the wall.
—I will forget her if I can!

In the name of the oaths of tenderness,
From which nothing can untie us,
And in order to reconcile us
As in the beautiful time of our intoxication,

I begged her for a rendezvous,
Evening, on an obscure road.
She came — foolish creature!
We are all more or less mad!

She was pretty again,
Though quite fatigued! And me,
I loved her too much! That is why
I said to her: Get out of this life!

No one can understand me. Does any
Among these stupid drunkards
Dream in their morbid nights
Of making a shroud from wine?

That crook unassailable
As the iron machines
Never, neither in summer nor winter,
Has known true love,


With his black enchantments,
His infernal procession of alarms,
His bottles of poison, his tears,
His noises of chain and bones!

—Here I am free and alone!
I will be dead drunk this evening;
Then, without fear and without remorse,
I will lie down on the earth,

And I will sleep like a dog!
Chariot with heavy wheels
Loaded with rocks and mud,
The rabid wagon may well

Crush my shameful head
Or cut me down the middle.
I mock it like I do God,
Or the devil or the Holy Table!

Le Vin de l'assassin
Ma femme est morte, je suis libre!
Je puis donc boire tout mon soûl.
Lorsque je rentrais sans un sou,
Ses cris me déchiraient la fibre.

Autant qu'un roi je suis heureux;
L'air est pur, le ciel admirable...
Nous avions un été semblable
Lorsque j'en devins amoureux!

L'horrible soif qui me déchire
Aurait besoin pour s'assouvir
D'autant de vin qu'en peut tenir
Son tombeau; — ce n'est pas peu dire:

Je l'ai jetée au fond d'un puits,
Et j'ai même poussé sur elle
Tous les pavés de la margelle.
— Je l'oublierai si je le puis!

Au nom des serments de tendresse,
Dont rien ne peut nous délier,
Et pour nous réconcilier
Comme au beau temps de notre ivresse,

J'implorai d'elle un rendez-vous,
Le soir, sur une route obscure.
Elle y vint — folle créature!
Nous sommes tous plus ou moins fous!

Elle était encore jolie,
Quoique bien fatiguée! et moi,
Je l'aimais trop! voilà pourquoi
Je lui dis: Sors de cette vie!

Nul ne peut me comprendre. Un seul
Parmi ces ivrognes stupides
Songea-t-il dans ses nuits morbides
À faire du vin un linceul?

Cette crapule invulnérable
Comme les machines de fer
Jamais, ni l'été ni l'hiver,
N'a connu l'amour véritable,

Avec ses noirs enchantements,
Son cortège infernal d'alarmes,
Ses fioles de poison, ses larmes,
Ses bruits de chaîne et d'ossements!

— Me voilà libre et solitaire!
Je serai ce soir ivre mort;
Alors, sans peur et sans remords,
Je me coucherai sur la terre,

Et je dormirai comme un chien!
Le chariot aux lourdes roues
Chargé de pierres et de boues,
Le wagon enragé peut bien

Ecraser ma tête coupable
Ou me couper par le milieu,
Je m'en moque comme de Dieu,
Du Diable ou de la Sainte Table!
---

For once, it may be high time for me to spend some time alone with myself and the mess I have made.

Le Vin de chiffonniers

This weekend, sick as dogs in a perpetually moving world. Nyquil cocktails and arrogance, we were and are so beautiful. The passion remains and we plan the months together. Soon the sun will shine and the wind will blow just enough to make us happy. But right now I feel dizzy and the congestion kills. God help and protect us. I can't see the world in front of me.

The Ragpicker's Wine
Often in the red light of a street lamp
Whose flame the wind beats and whose glass it torments,
In the heart of an old suburb, miry labyrinth
Where humanity swarms in stormy ferment,

One sees a ragpicker who comes, nodding his head,
Stumbling, knocking into walls like a poet,
And, without having concern for the stool-pigeons, his subjects,
Pours out all his heart in glorious plans.

He takes oaths, issues of sublime laws,
Strikes the malicious down, picks up the victims,
And under the firmament like a suspended canopy
He gets drunk from the splendor of his own virtue.

Yes, these people pestered by household heartbreak
Ground by work and tormented by age
Exhausted and bent under a pile of debris,
Sorry vomiting of enormous Paris,

Come back, perfumed with the odor of casks,
Followed by companions, whitened in battle,
Whose mustaches hang like old flags.
The banners, the flowers and the triumphant arches

Stand before them, solemn magic!
And in the dizzying and luminous debauchery
Of bugles, suns, shouts and drums,
They bring the glory to the people drunk with love!

It is thus that through frivolous Humanity
The wine rolls gold, dazzling Wealth;
By the throat of man he sings his exploits
And reigns by his gifts as the true king.

In order to drown the resentment and cradle the apathy
Of all these old damned who die in silence,
God, touched with remorse, had made sleep;
Man added Wine, sacred son of the Sun!

Le Vin de chiffonniers
Souvent à la clarté rouge d'un réverbère
Dont le vent bat la flamme et tourmente le verre,
Au coeur d'un vieux faubourg, labyrinthe fangeux
Où l'humanité grouille en ferments orageux,

On voit un chiffonnier qui vient, hochant la tête,
Butant, et se cognant aux murs comme un poète,
Et, sans prendre souci des mouchards, ses sujets,
Epanche tout son coeur en glorieux projets.

Il prête des serments, dicte des lois sublimes,
Terrasse les méchants, relève les victimes,
Et sous le firmament comme un dais suspendu
S'enivre des splendeurs de sa propre vertu.

Oui, ces gens harcelés de chagrins de ménage
Moulus par le travail et tourmentés par l'âge
Ereintés et pliant sous un tas de débris,
Vomissement confus de l'énorme Paris,

Reviennent, parfumés d'une odeur de futailles,
Suivis de compagnons, blanchis dans les batailles,
Dont la moustache pend comme les vieux drapeaux.
Les bannières, les fleurs et les arcs triomphaux

Se dressent devant eux, solennelle magie!
Et dans l'étourdissante et lumineuse orgie
Des clairons, du soleil, des cris et du tambour,
Ils apportent la gloire au peuple ivre d'amour!

C'est ainsi qu'à travers l'Humanité frivole
Le vin roule de l'or, éblouissant Pactole;
Par le gosier de l'homme il chante ses exploits
Et règne par ses dons ainsi que les vrais rois.

Pour noyer la rancoeur et bercer l'indolence
De tous ces vieux maudits qui meurent en silence,
Dieu, touché de remords, avait fait le sommeil;
L'Homme ajouta le Vin, fils sacré du Soleil!
---

Oddly enough, these unforseen events are not unwelcome.

L'Ame du Vin

Goodbye Paris, it's been nice to know you. It's hard to gauge Le Vin this early on but it's shaping up to be much less melodramatic than Spleen. I wonder if it is because I don't dwell like I used to. This section only has five poems, and then on to Fleurs du Mal, Révolte, and La Mort. I am starting to wonder if I will finish this project in time, since I have slightly less than two months to work my way through. But I don't grudge anyone this, my free time is spent happily. The wine to me is less about sadness and escape and more about joy and warm kisses on a rainy street. We are madly in love, he says. You are different, he says. I am happy but sometimes I wonder what it will be like to leave him. For once it is I who must go and not the other way around. I try to think about the immediate and I refuse to sully my happiness with thoughts of details. All the big things are okay. That's what matters.

The Wine is introduced as an entity in this poem, and we will soon see how this living thing treats those who choose to consume it. I know what it means to me, that is all.

The Soul of Wine
One evening, the soul of wine sang in the bottles:
“Man, I send to you, oh dear disadvantaged,
From under my prison of glass and my ruby wax,
A song full of light and brotherhood!

I know how much is necessary, on the flaming hill,
Of sorrow, sweat and burning sun
To engender my life and to give me soul;
But I will not be ungrateful or wicked,

Because I feel tremendous joy when I fall
Into the throat of a man worn down by his work,
And his chest is a sweet tomb
Where I please myself much more than in my cold vault.

Do you hear the refrains of Sundays ring out
And the hope that warbles in my palpitating breast?
Elbows on the table and rolling up your sleeves,
You will glorify me and you will be content;

I will light the eyes of your enraptured wife;
To your son I will return his strength and his color
And I will be for this frail athlete of life
The oil that tones the muscles of the wrestlers.

I will fall into you, vegetable ambrosia,
Precious grain thrown by the eternal sower,
So that poetry will be born from our love
That will shoot up towards God like a rare flower!”

L'Ame du Vin
Un soir, l'âme du vin chantait dans les bouteilles:
«Homme, vers toi je pousse, ô cher déshérité,
Sous ma prison de verre et mes cires vermeilles,
Un chant plein de lumière et de fraternité!

Je sais combien il faut, sur la colline en flamme,
De peine, de sueur et de soleil cuisant
Pour engendrer ma vie et pour me donner l'âme;
Mais je ne serai point ingrat ni malfaisant,

Car j'éprouve une joie immense quand je tombe
Dans le gosier d'un homme usé par ses travaux,
Et sa chaude poitrine est une douce tombe
Où je me plais bien mieux que dans mes froids caveaux.

Entends-tu retentir les refrains des dimanches
Et l'espoir qui gazouille en mon sein palpitant?
Les coudes sur la table et retroussant tes manches,
Tu me glorifieras et tu seras content;

J'allumerai les yeux de ta femme ravie;
À ton fils je rendrai sa force et ses couleurs
Et serai pour ce frêle athlète de la vie
L'huile qui raffermit les muscles des lutteurs.

En toi je tomberai, végétale ambroisie,
Grain précieux jeté par l'éternel Semeur,
Pour que de notre amour naisse la poésie
Qui jaillira vers Dieu comme une rare fleur!»

---

My love and my peace, how long I have waited for you! I see you embodied now, yes. But the most important thing is that I know you are possible.