The Little Old Woman
Deep in the
tortuous folds of ancient towns,
Where all, even horror, to enchantment turns,
I watch, obedient to my fatal mood,
For the decrepit, strange and charming beings,
The dislocated monsters that of old
Were lovely women-Lais or Eponine!
Hunchbacked and broken, crooked though they be,
Let us still love them, for they still have souls,
They creep along wrapped in chilly rags,
Beneath the whipping of the wicked wind,
They tremble when omnibus rolls by,
And at their sides, a relic of the past,
A little flower-embroidered satchel hangs.
The
Vampire
Thou
who abruptly as a knife
Didst come into my heart; thou who,
A demon horde into my life,
Didst enter, wildly dancing, through
The doorways of my sense unlatched
To make my spirit thy domain-
Harlot to whom I am attached
As convicts to the ball and chain,
As gamblers to the wheel's bright spell,
As drunkards to their raging thirst,
As corpses to their worms - accurst
Be thou! Oh, be thou damned to hell!
I have entreated the swift sword
To strike, that I at once be freed;
The poisoned phial I have implored
To plot with me a ruthless deed.
Alas! the phial and the blade
Do cry aloud and laugh at me:
"Thou art not worthy of our aid;
Thou art not worthy to be free.
Though one of us should be the tool
To save thee from thy wretched fate,
Thy kisses would resuscitate
The body of thy vampire, fool!"
Gypsies Traveling
The tribe
prophetic with the eyes of fire
Went forth last night: their little ones at rest
Each on his mothers back, with his desire
Set on the ready treasure of her breast.
Laden with shimmering arms the men-folk tread
By the long wagons where their goods lie hidden;
They watch
the heaven with eyes grown wearie'd
Of hopeless dreams that come to them unbidden.
The grasshopper, from out his sandy screen,
Watching them pass redoubles his shrill song;
Dian, who loves them, makes the grass more green,
And makes the rock run
water for this throng
Of ever-wandering ones whose calm eyes see
Familiar realms of darkness yet to be.
The Enemy
Naught
but a long blind tempest was my youth,
Sun-shot at times; the thunder and the rain
Have worked their havoc with so little ruth
That my garden few red fruits remain.
Now I have reached
the autumn of my thoughts
And shovel and pick must use some soil to save
From out the ruins that the rain hath wrought
Where all around great pits gape like the grave.
Who knows if these flowers of my dreams
Shall find beneath this naked strand that streams
The mystic substance which their strength imparts?
O misery! misery!
Time eats our lives,
And that dark enemy who gnaws our hearts
Grows by the blood he sucks from us, and thrives
My Conclusions
The
Flowers of Evil
Charles Baudelaire
I happened to stumble into
this book on the dusty shelves at a bookstore in New York, lying rested, these books
at the bottom among the layered dust of unused time. The poems in this book were written
by what I consider a true poet, and not merely a person who writes poetry.
He was born in France. His father was in his mid sixties while his mother was in her early
twenties, Charles father died when Charles was six. He attended a French school where he
was later expelled. He wanted to be a writer but attended law school, it was their he
tasted the existence of the unbridled bohemian lifestyle, and to him it was living life. The people of his
upper class attendance were ridged and like painted cakes fading through life without
living. To him the Prostitutes and lesbians were far more fun and interesting, then the
disgusting graying spinsters contained in their their rigimortous bodies from the lack of
living, fused with age. Baudelaire had an appetite for horrific literature and the macabre
and being a true eccentric. He involved him self with an actress named Jeanne Duval who
later became his mistress, most of Baudelaire’s poems were influenced by this woman.
The Flowers of Evil was originally published in 1857 and contained only sixteen poems, was seized by the police, it was later revised to its current volume in 1861. Baudelaire was a prolific and tenacious writer in his time, but to the content of The Flowers of Evil. The topics of his poems caused him and the publisher of the book to be brought up on obscenity charges and six poems were banned because of their graphic content. In writing this book he used drugs For evil inspiration. He had written essays on Poe’s work in 1852 and between 1856 and 1865 he translated Poe’s poems into French he died in his mothers arms at the young age of 46.
The versions we are able to read have been translated form French into English and it has been remarked that much was lost in the transitions, he saw his own flowers as not only evil but disgusting and ugly. Six new poem were added to the book after Charles died, they were found in a journal after his death.
I was attracted to the poem The Little Old Women because in our culture the morning brings on the elderly, while the afternoon brings on the business men and it is the youth that hides in the nights passing, and sleep behind locked doors of the mind during the day. When one finds them selves in other European countries, the elderly prowl around at night with their carnations flesh from arthritis contorted knotted appendages which were once soft gentle hands, hunched backs from the lack of calcium and the soft translucent wrinkles of their skin catching the moonlight somewhat liquid in its folds as their distant graying eyes drain, wretched shadows cut across summer evenings cooling building, creatures once so beautiful becoming wasted from time, time like acid washing away what was beautiful to Baudelaire and perverting the flesh in such a way it haunted him, haunted him to write about it. I to have witnessed this transformation, and wept for the punishment of becoming a hideous form myself.
Baudelaire saw the world from a less controlled and restricted position, his poems in this book are the tears of his sweet dripping with real love and emotion for what he had walked through. A great book of poems for the Gothic who were born out of time and displaced in this less dark and somber space filled more with passion to be presented with lives without warmth or control. No longer filled with thought I will now sow the seed of Baudelaires soul to be planted within the gray matter of your mind to grow his flowers of evil.
I only see this poet as relating to others we have covered in class as being from an embryonic state, that is as each of us grows throughout development from conception, we at first look identical and as we grow we are the same yet no two alike as individuals, no to poets are identical but all are poets, with different obsessed souls and faces. Baudelaire tended to grow in a more pleasing manor to me as a reader. His poems are intellectual and take thought to digest and consumed by the heat of ones soul. I find that the poems I have written this term did not say what I intended, Baudelaire has said what I feel, and wish I was able to put into words.
Charles Baudelaire was a poet who suffered in his life but lived life. I heard a writer of poetry say how much they had suffered to write, but it could not as been as painful as having to listen to those poems being read, and do not all suffer for their crafts, would one not say a surgeon has not suffered as he has tried to save a child , only to lose that life, then deal with that grief. How much is one to suffer to be good. I find as I write this conclusion I am stuck to format, as an infected wound clings to gauze, and that to flesh, something so delicate is beyond my capabilities
More On
Baudelaire
PHANTASMAGORIA
Tracers of A Lost Mind
Charles-Pierre Baudelaire was born in Paris in 1821, the only son of an elderly father and young mother. His father died before he was six and his mother remarried a year later. Baudelaire was later to express violent hostility towards his step-father, Colonel (subsequently General) Aupick. In his majority in 1842 he moved to a flat on the Ile St-Louis and indulged his artistic tastes so extravagantly that his parents, trying to safeguard what was left of his capital, transferred control of it to the lawyer Ancelle, a well-meaning soul on whom Baudelaire would always vent his resentment at this humiliating situation. Baudelaire was never again to be free from debt, or from schemes to restore his fortune by writing, publishing or lecturing. He Suffered a stroke in Belgium in 1866, lingered on semi-paralyzed and, latterly, mute and was brought back to Paris, where he died the following year. Baudelaire's prose poems and writings on art and literature were collected after his death; the literary criticism shows the influence of Edgar Allen Poe and Franz Kafka Metamorphosis.
Remember the
philosophy conversations with Theotetus on “What is Knowledge” and indeed it
becomes a reality, that reality is only a mist of illusion and our brain can only perceive
what is outside the cranium, and all of the world is external and removed from this organ
which resides quietly floating in a somber fluid hidden under gray matter and snapping,
shocked with over active neurons and mad thoughts. That only our perceptions are real.
That knowledge is intangible. Yikes!!!!!
Tae Amo Morte
Some Poems and Stories I Have Written
NightcrawlerO Yah!!! X-Men Comics :oP I love this guy!!!!! I have read X-Men comics for at least 15 years, not gonna stop until i turn to dust :o)
Twisting like a serpent ready to breed
I touched the flesh of his body
Ready to feed
Copious fluid of liquid seed
Filled my void
And he was freed
Touching the place of forbidden need
I cried for more
He followed my lead
I do not like poems that rhyme, but so what….. it lays here anyway
The Old
Their shadows sneak across the moon washed cobblestones
Black upon Black
Distorted by the contorted architecture of time
Silken flesh translucent
Catching the light somewhat liquid in its folds
Disforming strange beauty into discarded vesicles
Mummified in their dark clothing cloaking their form
Gray upon Gray
The aged satchels of youth
Crazed careworn hands
Fumble for a stained hankie
Grasping on to the bramble
To brace an unsteady stance
Staring blindly at the sky with watering eyes obscured with time
Waiting to decay
White upon White
My
Fathers Hands
I wrote this poem
for my father, who's hands carried me from the car into the house as I pretended to be
asleep, just so he would have to get close to me..
These hands which caressed my face with such care, and gentleness as they kept the night
mares from trodding through my mind with their sharpened hooves, as I slept. These are the
hands I love as other recoil.........He is my samara
I must pity those who are so unenlightened as they are imbecilic
I can see now, the
Gentle flesh of my father’s hands,
Like coiled, matted snakes amassed within their nest,
Grayed bundled, convolutions
Graceful like a contorted willow
Shaped in exotic form,
Knotted with time,
As a nurtured bonsai
Reaching away
From the sight of others,
Hidden in dark pockets
Once strong,
Offered in gesture, as eyes turn away,
Reluctantly reach from its touch
Holding translucent leaves of fall
With such strength
Follow The Bierbak
I
t was hallows eve and I decided to go into the night knowing that I would fit in and no one would notice the differences in me. This was the evening that I could be free to run with life. Gliding down the street I watched children mock the reality that I lived, knowing that if I have my way that they will remain unchanged at dawn. I went to the edge of town; there I came upon the hurst. The caw of a raven called my attention to the bier balk, I turned in its direction towards the in evident. Walking for miles into the canopy, I arrived at the knotted woods. The trees were old and it felt as though the eyes of a hundred watchers were upon anything that moved. There was a cackling laugh from the distance; I followed its beckon call There in the center of a small clearing squatting against the ground was a zangira Dressed in bright colors offset with lead white skin. She passed her open palms across the bones chanting. She stood up walking towards me, her asper hands grab at my face cutting into my flesh, she cast an arm across the dark running her warped finger in the air. The light from the fire grew in height and the dregs of life were exposed. Behind her stood a swarm of wally drags. Their contorted little forms were more offensive than my own. Gnarled bodies started climbing on top of one another and into the trees, their unclothed awry carnosity reflected the licht of the red- orange harvest moon. The zangria handed me a glass of eau, bringing my mouth to the edge I could taste the bitter fluid before it touched my lips. Her voice rasping, wrenched out “mal y pense honi soit qui” I felt the impact of her words cut through my ears dropping into my jaw. One of her henchmen chantedI poured the blue liquid down my throat. Swallowing once. Before me was a bog, I dropped my knees into the peat watching my reflection in the water then my mind helixed in to the liquid universe. My body began mortification as I started to see the face I hid from myself. The wounds on my tissues begun to efflux, dripping into the swamp, obumbrating it incarnadine.I watched the water pass my eyes there I saw my mind. Spinning out grasping on taking a hold to anything free moving. Experiencing that which I could only observe before. I penetrated the structure of everything my mentality touched upon, it was as if my mind had become part of a dying macrocosm and my mentality was the monolith which would be the barrier the lethal knowledge, through the liquid my ears perceived a dirge as the fluid exequies continued and I arrived at the necropolis. A nidorous odor effumed through the vacuous area, their before me stood my God of the benighted. Pulling off my cerecloth he exposed the ensanguined remains hanging in clumps from my architecture. I now understood. The zoothapsis continued at this beclouded purgatory. The tolling of knell gyved the attendants. My God pulled out the spiritual whip cracking it against what remained from my walk through flesh, as I cried and screamed the zymoid of life were removed from my carcass, thrown to his workers to collect and reform. Standing there I had become all knowing to the secrets of the carnate souls, while the lashings lumbered in my bones. The fulsome aroma of cinerated flesh crisping, smoked with each crack of the strap.
My God of blackness grabbed me by one wrist and ankle throwing me back to revivification to once again walk with the pride of flesh bearers. I found myself shooting upward like a fireworks exploding in the darkness of night bringing an aurora to life. The particles of renewed freshness filled the sky. And the breath of life once again began. Falling like a samara to creation I landed next to the bog, my reflection now that of beauty in pain. I saw what I wanted to achieve. The crunching sound of laughter from the partially formed globs of flesh behind my crept up my spine. I turned in disgust revolted by their presence, I had arrived at Erebus. The still growing flames caste a penumbra against my mind and the stygian figure appeared. He opened his eyes of purple scepter, I was now reigned to his tutelage of his desire, these were my thrall. What he thought became through my servitude. I arose from the ground as he watched me shadow out of the woods and into the dawn. I saw the people of the night and they had remained the same just as I had asked, ghastly formations of contorted skin. I had changed to what they had been.
396
It was Friday night and I found myself agitated, restless, and
impatient for Saturday to come. We were crusin’ in the hemi Dart heading for
the local drive-in to see a movie we were’t even gonna watch. The ragtop was
rolled back exposing us to the fresh air of night and I could feel the warm breeze cool my
heated body and blow my hair across my face. My clothes were still sticking to my
flesh, sweated, tightening against my skin revealing both of my nipples in full erection
from the heat cooled by the air. I hadn’t gotten anywhere, and yet, I felt like
I had passed all three bases and been driven hard, all the way home.
A small whirring motor
started up powering the ragtop over us, cloaking us from the night’s cold breath as
we began to teach each other about an 18 year olds idea of ardor, I put my hand across his shoulders. Reaching around to his back pulling his neck
forward, rising my nose to meet it, burying my face deep behind his ear, breathing the
scent of his skin in. He smelled warm and
sweet like blackberries in the sun and I ran my fingers up his neck into his hair, filling
my palms with the back of his head. I pushed it forward, tightening the pressure of our
lock, his tongue penetrating deeper into my mouth as I started to suck on it. The windows beginning to fog as we lost track of
anything but us as one. My body shuddered as
he pulled me under him, riding me into and across all moral bounds into morning.
I unracked my lover, a 1955
Chev two door sedan, slick and flash black, his chrome grill looked like a tooth filled
snarl. Burn out flames that changed from red
to orange to yellow rolled across the hood. The
wide tires made him sit up on his haunches, like a linebacker ready to blitz. All I want to do is think about him. I grasped his muscular hand in mine, opening him
up. The strong scent of age and leather
flowed out of the cab. The door was heavy,
cracking as his arm released at the hinges to let me in.
I put my feet on his floorboard lowering myself to his lap, compressing the
dark tuck and roll leather. I ran my palm
across his sun warmed skin feeling my way, as my right hand penetrated the key deep into
his ignition.
Jeeeezzzzzzzzzzz did I write this, HA!
Not one for the kiddies :oP
Wanton Love
Breath deeply
As light fades
Into the dark of day with its sadness.
So much more sorrow
Then that of a passing moon,
Whose angelic cheek
Shone softer than that of a severed wing from a dove
Did I first see with the mind,
The autopsy of my universe.
Once more invisorated,
Filed with the painful passion
Of uncertain love.
Flowing from the hearts of dying rivers.
The spillage of blood washed tears,
With a need to suture the wound
So hungry to be healed
Within the scent of odd beauty.
Devils
Bones
Shake everything and roll
the devils bones
To caste a black mark
What will it be
Two through twelve
The vanquishment of knowledge
I am no longer scrummed to the ligament or nexus of our connections
I once your inamorato give you this remembrance
Your sepulchral castrates your own monument of existence
I tried to meld with your ways
But I had to sepulture
Any thoughts of continuous relations
For your contamination’s would ruin my noted persensity
I raise my glass
To the exodus of our union
Its eminent return to the serpent
Consume the hemlock for I have rolled seven
And escaped your ectoplasmic grip on my noumenion
Night Of
The Electric Cemetary
Who are you today, I tried to read the inscription carved into my soul, It was there that I found the Electric cemetery. Picking up my pen I tried to chase the empty space across the page with words creating pathopoeia. I remember watching my friends dreams go up in flames, burning leaving them nothing. I had hoped mine would be spared, but I was wrong. I am hungry all the time for something that will never fill me. Feelings of decephalization set in I tried to Jugulate my thoughts but now I must dislodge myself from this keep. Pulling out a road book I proceeded down the path away from my security towards the cathedral of vanquishment. The noise of nature rammed down my ears. Cold to the bone, my marrow began to ache, now feeling the ridgedness of my muscles constricting. Celadon sea smoke rolled off the night tide casting a rancid smell of decayed passage. I felt myself removed as left a piece my soul behind with each step approaching the large iron gates to the land called perdition. looking up a hard glow refracted off my face, it was a strange icon of neon. The signs crisp cracking, mechanical murmur caused a humming in my chest, I jerked with each cut of its forewarning. The signs printed message CEMETARY flashed out the pulse of electro magnetism in ephemeris time. I was pulled in against my will. My feet left trenches as they slid against the tears of hored grass. Church bells rang lentor, wept in requiem, how could songs of joy to this world cry off in tempos revealing the sadness of lost creation. Electrical cords snapping filled the air as I watched energy arc. Resurrecting, scrapping a path through the night climbing their veins to the sky with the fire clouds of autumn. Smoke filled my mind blocking the vision of all that was transpiring but my senses were aware of the nocturnal trappings to befall my eyes of innocence. Under the music of night I felt a thump, loud screams as something was amass behind me. The muffled noise somehow spiked my awareness, that cry for life penetrated all other sounds as the call for continued existence pervaded even the most concealed trappings. I tried to block it but, I couldn’t stop the flow, while the corrosive royne of foaming, putrefied flesh made me vomit. The pinnacles of headstones began to light up the obscurity of melano, while the decayed remains, which were once entombed below the matted grass fed from worm casings, crawled out into the pageant of twilight. laughing as they climbed their monuments of death, their jaws jacking open. Rendered structures of form rattle, reaching a hand out towards nirvana, begging not to be forgotten. Their finger joints loosen and drop leaving a stump to beckon interest their direction. The screams of thole rapt the night sky ripping holes in it. I could see the light through the tears. What secrets are kept in that light behind the ebon. What was it they were trying to obtain. I walked to the edge of the point watching the ocean argue with itself over lost position. The thunder of its crests white shot with foamed anger, rabid with infection from the placental kind. A coughing breath of wind blew in from the north gates killing those who inhaled its suspiration. I turned back to look at the electric cemetery to view several skeletal forms cry from their created destiny unable to proceed forward from their containment begging for the man of gaff and spur to cut the roots of life from their feet and to be set free to run with the tridan of night.
Skeletal Skein The tangled skein I had this
dream the night I went to a carnival with a friend. I
think the date was 8-15-99, but I would have to check the Oregonian for the night those 3
events actually happened. The Hale bop comet was crossing overhead and you could see the
tail of light behind it. There was also a
full moon eclipse that night as I watched it pass, the planet Mars was visible. It is hard to say what happened in my mind alone,
or because those events occurred in such an elective affinity, but as Carl Jung states in
his Synchronicity theory that even a single event is not random, because the chances of a
single event happening are improbable, that mathematically the odds are overwhelming to
the point of almost being un-measurable, Albert Einstein would not accept this doctrine as
it is to dyadic. The
Card Reading There was a full moon eclipse and the carnival was
closed. It was darker than usual that
night. The starless sky was without a moon,
everything looked as though it was covered with wet algae, so black as it shimmered off
the faint light cast from the horizon. I entered the park
alone, I felt myself becoming part of the works of things here. I glanced around seeing nothing. Then I felt a tugging at my abdomen. It felt as though something had hooked into the
muscle of my stomach embedding itself deeply, and I was being reeled in. As it pulled me towards the end of the midway
unwillingly, my feet were dragged in the direction of the single barker left at this
obsolete mausoleum of entertainment.
His
smile began to consume his face and then it rolled turning his lips inside out exposing
the rawness of peeled away flesh and broken, feted, rotting teeth. Stepping aside he revealed the final attraction of
doom. It was a small coffin shaped booth. The only light exposing its silhouette was a dying
comet-passing overhead. The sound of cracking
rust echoed as a door of the same shape opened, squelching, revealing the contents it held
within. There, in the center
of the room was a small round table of darkened wood.
Balanced perfectly on three cockatrice legs that ended at the shape of
gnarled talon. Within those clutches were
large glass spheres making contact with a bottomless floor.
Upon it was placed an ancient deck of tarot cards neatly stacked, but worn
and graying at the edges, slightly curled from use. In
the center of the table was an over sized crystal ball upon a griffin stand. Drapes of black-silvered panae velvet opened
slowly. From their crack emerged an
articulated skeleton. He stopped as his
frozen expression glanced me over. Reaching
out his contorted hand pointing a knotted finger at a now materialized chair. It pulled out away from its place of rest and I
sat upon it. When I looked up, he was already
seated across from me. The cards blew a
breeze of contaminated stench as they were shuffled by his wrenched hands. Their scent was of hot, sweet, putrefied tissue. The deck was handed across to me, and then he held
up three fingers as his roughened voice scraped out “Thrice.” I cut the cards.
The bones of a hand snapped across the table snatching the cards greedily
within their ephemeral hold. There, holding
my fate within his clutches, he laid the cards out across the table; the pattern was that
of a pentagram. He brought his head up to
square off with mine and uttered the words “Resurrection.” He collected the
cards back into his hands, they turned to squirming larva life, some dropped out, and
instantly they shifted into dragonflies as they flew off. The chair
dematerialized, and I started free falling. My
heart was pounding out the pulsing rhythm of changing existence. My body now beginning to flesh, turned upside down
as my cranial horns diminished. I opened up
my leathery bat wings to break my fall to grace. My
new flesh, was whitening from density as my
leathered wings eroded away into the path of life. The
exposed veins of my architecture started snapping and whipping like electrical cords
through the darkness. I felt the painful
loss of what I am now, becoming metamorphosed into a creature I had despised yet a thing
of virginal pureness and beauty. The long
claws on my hands retracted as blood flowed freely from the tips. Still falling I turned upside right holding my
arms out they now possessed the thick full wings of a swan, and I ripped out a scream of
awareness. I felt the now warming fluid pump
through my veins and I cried for the loss of my purgatory.
Would I ever be redeemed into that place I knew I would long for. That inhuman place of containment where darkness
keeps all the ebonised secrets of heaven. Falling downward, I
hit the ground causing the planet to crack and shudder.
Torturous pain in my in the sides of my head, could that be sound. I feel the softness under my feet as I rise
to one knee my wings pulled forward over the top of my head and the sound of large limbs
snapping, breaking as they unfold. Each
feather began to move on its own as they turned into white ravens and flew off. The thumping of their flight beat with the pulse
of a living heart. I stood to my feet and was
now aware what it meant to be flesh borne. I had lost the ease of being, and was now imprisoned
in the flesh of living. The thorn of a rose picked my flesh and the
blood of life flowed out from the wound. I
wondered if the vein is the womb of blood and is the heeling sore scabbing over was the
sign of life. I am dying as I struggle to
retain my memories. Buried away, this death
is unbearable.
Of skeletal life
No longer a great form of architecture
Unendowed with intellect
Falling deeper into the chasm of existence
Rejection Arriving at the expiration
of flesh
exporation of life
No longer sanguine
Becoming
The ossuary 
Hapless
moon of your soul
reflects only what you see
blistered visions of sanguine life
burrow
outward to be free
So What, You Ask? 6 of 1 ...... ( or perhaps 1/2 dozen of the other)
There is nothing worse in life then regret!
Theresa Compton
"This was my 1st web page ever, I have created better ones since, with more current poems and stores (among other things)and now i am a certified web designer cool no??? my friends take advantage, but i love writing code! I like this one as it is simple and pure in the state it is in. I will keep it as it is . email me, and perhaps I will link you to the other sites. :o)"
"Be Seeing You"