Thursday, February 11, 2010

Baudelaire Shepherd


I smelt a bitch in heat, upwind from me,
and strained upon my leash. This is the bite
within, which stirred my fathers' shivaree,
and which I sing myself in turn, despite
the knife which made a eunuch from my might.
No blade could cut away the ceaseless flood
of lust, of joy, of sorrow, in my blood.

I curse the vanity of human love!
You sigh, you swoon, conspire, and complain,
and then imagine all you're thinking of
is worth recording in a stale quatrain,
while amorous beasts merit only disdain.
And yet, with neither words, nor human soul,
I see; I breathe; I ache; I am not whole.

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