i’m not surrealism

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  • 201 Comments
Joined 2 months ago
Cake day: April 26th, 2026
  • not pmjv@horp.sciops.nettoThis is not Funhole@horp.sciops.net•us
    1·
    8 days ago

    a carcass - baudelaire

    Remember, my love, the object we saw
    That beautiful morning in June:
    By a bend in the path a carcass reclined
    On a bed sown with pebbles and stones;

    Her legs were spread out like a lecherous whore,
    Sweating out poisonous fumes,
    Who opened in slick invitational style
    Her stinking and festering womb.

    The sun on this rottenness focused its rays
    To cook the cadaver till done,
    And render to Nature a hundredfold gift
    Of all she’d united in one.

    And the sky cast an eye on this marvellous meat
    As over the flowers in bloom.
    The stench was so wretched that there on the grass
    You nearly collapsed in a swoon.

    The flies buzzed and droned on these bowels of filth
    Where an army of maggots arose,
    Which flowed with a liquid and thickening stream
    On the animate rags of her clothes.

    And it rose and it fell, and pulsed like a wave,
    Rushing and bubbling with health.
    One could say that this carcass, blown with vague breath,
    Lived in increasing itself.

    And this whole teeming world made a musical sound
    Like babbling brooks and the breeze,
    Or the grain that a man with a winnowing-fan
    Turns with a rhythmical ease.

    The shapes wore away as if only a dream
    Like a sketch that is left on the page
    Which the artist forgot and can only complete
    On the canvas, with memory’s aid.

    From back in the rocks, a pitiful bitch
    Eyed us with angry distaste,
    Awaiting the moment to snatch from the bones
    The morsel she’d dropped in her haste.

    And you, in your turn, will be rotten as this:
    Horrible, filthy, undone,
    O sun of my nature and star of my eyes,
    My passion, my angel in one!

    Yes, such will you be, o regent of grace,
    After the rites have been read,
    Under the weeds, under blossoming grass
    As you moulder with bones of the dead.

    Ah then, o my beauty, explain to the worms
    Who cherish your body so tine,
    That I am the keeper for corpses of love
    Of the form, and the essence divine!