By charles baudelaire, the original poet-rockstar. Crazy for wine, women and anything decadent, the Satanic Man died broke and half crazy, partly paralysed with a gamut of sexual diseases aquired from countless parisian prostitutes. the poetry and lifestyles of almost every major poet worth his salt can be traced to Baudelaire.

…we are all baudelaire’s children

No rage, no rancor: I shall beat you
as butchers fell an ox,
as Moses smote the rock in Horeb-
I shall make you weep,

and by the waters of affliction
my desert will be slaked.
My desire, that hope has made monstrous,
will frolic in your tears
as a ship tosses on the ocean-
in my besotted heart
your adorable sobs will echo
like an ecstatic drum.

For I – am I not a dissonance
in the divine accord,
because of the greedy Irony
which infiltrates my soul?

I hear it in my voice – that shrillness,
that poison in my blood!
I am the sinister glass in which
the Fury sees herself!

I am the knife and the wound it deals,
I am the slap and the cheek,
I am the wheel and the broken limbs,
hangman and victim both!

I am the vampire at my own veins,
one of the great lost horde
doomed for the rest of my time, and beyond,
‘to laugh – and smile no more’

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