Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Baudelaire cut up #2

Of the poem "Congenial Horror" from "The Flowers of Evil"

"From this bizarre from Rome tormented by you into your vacant wind swept sands, What thought? of my pride; so black and wide. Voracious in my dreams command, for the uncertain light As Ovid did, expel my heart delights. Skies torn about like and livid sky you are the mirrors destiny, Your mourning fly

Are hearses that my, you libertine and you reflect in the Hell in which appetite and unknown paradise."

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