jaydrakul

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The Wicked Monk
by Charles Baudelaire

Old cloisters, on their mighty walls, displayed
In tableau, scenes of holy Verity
Which warmed the pious entrails and allayed
The chill of cenobite austerity.

When the seed of Christ flourished long ago,
Many a monk, of small renown today,
Using the churchyard for his studio,
Glorified Death in all simplicity.

My soul's tomb which, wicked cenobite,
I wander...
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These two songs completely outline my thoughts and feelings as of late.

The Wall-Johnny Cash

There's A lot of strange men, in cell block ten
But the strangest of em' all
Was a friend of mine who speant his time
Starin' at the wall..
Starin' at the wall..

As He looked at the wall
So strong and tall
You could hear him softley curse
Nobody...
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I would write but....would anyone read it?

Here's my favourite Charles Baudelaire poem from Les Fleurs du Mal, my favourite book.

Her Poison

Wine knows how to adorn the most sordid hovel
With marvelous luxury
And make more than one fabulous portal appear
In the gold of its red mist
Like a sun setting in a cloudy sky.

Opium magnifies that which is limitless,
Lengthens...
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