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Duke of Albion Chapter 4, Part 1

Chapter 4
Classical Trash and Country Living

Waking only after at least two days of incoherence, Duke finally regained control of his corpse-like form and was able to rise.

Legs still tender from the other day’s dose of Beethoven and stitches pulling at sore, dry skin, Peter made his slow and careful way to the bathroom for a shower.
He knew not what time it was nor did he care. He had desperately needed a good rest and now, having accomplished his most basic and dire task, he was free to resume his unique existence.
Although it was not often, this tragic youth did in fact work. Knowing from an early age that he would be unable to adapt to a normal occupation and understanding that he would be inheriting all the funds he would ever need, Peter set his attentions on book dealing.
While he did buy and sell nearly every major work known to man, he was simply unable to leave some editions as they were. The books would call to him, taunt him, dare him to deface their valued pages and, being a dutiful man, Peter would complete their desires.
Caring not a hitch for relics of the past, he drew pictures of drunkards in Dickens’ epics, carved holes in Hugo’s yarns, and stored several small bugs he’d squashed in an incredibly rare edition of Maldoror, staining the pages with insect bile.
Not feeling particularly productive on this day, he neglected the pile of notes atop his desk representing different bids for his treasures and instead decided that it would do him good to take a trip into the countryside.
He hoped the fresh air would soothe the burning from the thread holding his form together and remove some of the horror from his mind.
His was a twisted hope, and one that required much planning. Getting to the country would be an issue since he believed trains to be vessels intent on capturing his soul for harvest with all the other cretins of the world.
He could walk, but it would be a very long journey at best and he might risk tearing a stitch free, so he settled on finding another mode of transport.
After several minutes of mental wandering, Peter Duke found his answer. It was in fact so simple that he could not believe even the tiny amount of time it took for him to invent it.

Duke of Albion Chapter 3

Chapter 3
Back in the Grind

After a lengthy selection process, Peter settled on a pair of leather boots that he fancied and trudged back to the spot where he had agreed to meet his other half who arrived from the café at precisely the same second.
Both lads were tired by this point due to the extensive loss of blood that occurs when one is missing a complete section of their body, but were nonetheless thrilled to see each other. Separately observing himself, he decided to head straight to a hospital and place his fate in the hands of a doctor who would be able to remedy his condition. Finding a surgeon capable of this Humpty-Dumpty procedure he had deemed necessary was no problem and Peter soon found himself whole once again and on his way back to his musty flat.
The stitches that ran down his front and back were somewhat of a nuisance since they stretched not one bit and slowed him down, but he eventually made it home and immediately set to working on his latest obsession.
For several months, Peter had been collecting any small pieces of metal that he happened to find on the street and storing them in a plastic box. By now, he had about 67 bits and pieces of this and that and had but one goal in mind. He desired more than anything in the world to melt the pieces together and create a set of rings for himself.
Taking out the soldering gun he had managed to acquire from his father’s garage several years ago when he still knew who his parents were, he melted, tortured, and carved the piece that most intrigued him into the shape of a simple ring. After verifying that it was the proper size, he marked the outer part with a small X and smiled crookedly at his work.
Jewelry pleased Peter in a way that nothing else was able to. Still holding the soldering gun, he considered taking it to the sheers mounted in his bathroom and destroying them. He was certain that they smelled his fear this morning and had a sickening feeling that they were plotting some kind of corrupt revenge. He’d had enough of blades for the time being and was in no disposition to get more stitches either.
He stood, ready to head into the bathroom, but decided against this as he did need his sharp friends to fight off those birds if ever they decided to return. Return they surely would, especially once they caught the scent of his fresh wounds.
Ravaged, they would come swarming in, and head instantly for his neck. Though their beaks were not sharp, they were quite the bother to Peter since he was still not entirely sure if they were real or not.
He did not like feeling confused or possibly insane, so he would do whatever he could to keep the pests away, and sleep with his sheers, ready to slash, under his pillow. He would have to conquer his fear and have faith in their forgiveness. They would probably be grateful to be free from their restraints and in their state of happiness fail to realize what Peter had thought about them that very morning.
Staring at the new ring on his finger, Duke was hit with memories of his only love. Like everything else he seemed to enjoy, Peter had found his girl in the gutter of a small alley at the complete opposite side of the city while on an outing one afternoon. Do not be fooled into thinking that our noble hero found one equally as insane as he to cherish. This interest of his, while she was real enough to him, was not to others.
She was small enough to fit in his hand and her features ignited something in him that he couldn’t explain. Her vinyl face was dirty from lying on the filthy, wet stones that made up the road, but her blue plastic eyes still contained a powerful glimmer and the look of this tattered and forgotten plaything gave him a feeling he had never before experienced.
Acting on his impulses and not bothering to clean her off, Peter brought the doll back to his flat and deemed one of the chairs hers, placing her upon it. Her slumped, unmoving form continued to delight him for the three years that she occupied her throne until Peter grew angry with her for never contributing anything intelligent to conversations when he hosted parties for the few friends he once had.
Once he turned on La Petite VanyVictoire, as he called her, he was done. She had to be destroyed as soon as possible. He gripped her round the neck, dragged her feather light form out into the putrid and humid air of the city, and tossed her, clear across the street, into the nearest storm drain.
He regretted his action even before Mademoiselle Victoire finished her aerial descent, but what was done was to remain that way. As penance for his folly, he declared that he would never again open his heart to anyone. It had been roughly five years now that she was gone and although he did not want to admit it, Peter knew that she was partly the reason for his continuous journey into the world of the Insane.
Deciding that he needed some slight distraction from his recollections, he pulled himself from his chair and disinterestedly floated over to where he kept his most prized possession.
Having been an avid admirer of music his entire life, but never enjoying the fact that it is not interactive, Peter built a contraption to make it so. Taking the bones of an old record player and haphazardly rearranging them into a manner that fit his purpose, he later attached small cables to the device that were particularly conductive. Through some rigging of his own, he set the creation up so that each individual chord of a song would be physically felt traveling through the wires and directly into his body.
He wanted so terribly to feel the emotion in songs that seemed so empty when heard over a regular system. These lyrical drug injections turned him into a being even more bizarre and depraved than he already was. After the first test and use left his pupils dilated and his tongue dry, Peter decided that he ought to keep at it every day and see if his cranial capacity, or any other physical ability, might improve.
Now, in his sate of reflection and remorse, he wanted nothing more than to block out his thoughts and replace them with pure jolts of raw feeling more enticing than sex.
He selected the record that he knew would not fail to excite him out of his current state. It was dusty and warped from being too often played and left on the machine for weeks at a time but it was no less glorious. This piece, this gem that Peter looked upon as a kind of child since it was something that he created with the same sincerity, was a combination of the concertos of Beethoven and the sounds that wild animals make when dying of starvation.
The howls and cries mixed with the ingenious crescendos of the Master made Peter’s breathing grow heavy and hot. His eyes grew unfocused as he retreated into his mind and began to see fantastical visions of mice taking over the European consulate and enacting their own doctrines (most of which revolving around cheese and dirt) to better the world.
He saw houses deconstructing themselves and the inhabitants being forced to flee to the countryside and seek shelter under rocks and in trees where things were dreary.
As a smile strained against his now white lips, his hands began to tremble with excitement. Falling to the ground and now seeing that which he saw so vividly that his eyes began to burn and tear, a laugh louder than the very noises he was currently blasting into his muscles resonated throughout his flat. The wires were doing their job.
Writhing on the floor at the height of his journey, Peter somehow became aware of a rather odd noise emanating not from his musical invention, but from the street outside.
Quickly tearing the wires free from his now painfully pulsating muscles and wiping the tears from his eyes, he crawled over to his window and poked his head out just enough to observe whatever the event may have been.
Two men were clearly engaged in an argument of some kind and when Peter, already smiling like a mad cat, realized this he immediately scuttled over to his door and dragged himself, legs still incapable of supporting any weight thanks to his electrical session, closer to the scene.
Kneeling in a small black puddle and sweating profusely both from the excitement that had just passed as well as what was to come, he waited patiently for this much anticipated battle to begin.
Peter loved fights above all things. Clenching his hands together in rabid rapture, he let his eyes roam with the now escalating movements of the lads. Oh! How he wished they were beasts! Had this been the case, there’s no telling what he might have seen.
He decided to assign the men animal equals so that he might better profit from his current observations. The slighter of the two had dark hair and fairly scrawny legs which brought a crow greatly to mind. The other was not much larger but had upon his face such a regard of displeasure and anguish that Duke could assign him no other creature but a raccoon.
Savage identities now set, the fight could progress with true purpose and the ever mounting fever within Peter could continue its ascent to his brain and start to pour out of his eyes, drawing the attention that he so often avoided.
When this fever brought on by displays of human nature showed its face, our hero would lose all control of his senses and start on a behavioral journey like no other ever before dreamed of.
As it was, Peter Duke was quivering, laughing, and sweating blood that smelled of stale cigars and cold tea. As much as he wanted to witness this impending row, he could not deny that remaining as a spectator in his condition would quite possibly kill him, and so, reluctantly, he hauled his momentarily useless form back up the stairs to his flat, sprawled on the filthy Oriental rug he so adored, and finally allowed himself to be absorbed by sleep.

Duke of Albion Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Danger, High Voltage

Most people, upon seeing a bleeding section of a man walking down the street, would be horrified by the sight that Peter offered them. The citizens of this city however were so used to seeing Mr. Duke behaving strangely, like some rabid animal with no head, that they were hardly even fazed. Surely this was nothing compared to last year when he had broken every object in his home and glued the fragments together into a chunk that he proceeded to toss out the window at precisely three pm on the first day of March.
Children, naturally, were horrified by what they saw since, for many of them, it was their first time witnessing such depravity. The parents holding these children’s hands simply kept their eyes firmly focused on the ground as they carried out their business. They were able to smell the iron odor emanating from Peter’s split body and they could see small, brilliant red droplets of blood spill onto the pavement, but they refused to give him their full attention.
Duke was but a ghost in this city; he was seen, that is certain, but he was rarely acknowledged or spoken to. No one wanted to associate themselves with a man capable of the things so often displayed by Peter on a daily basis. They did not know much about him but what little they knew was enough to frighten them off permanently. This strange creature had a rather short temper, a bizarre fancy for all things red, an unstable disposition and a remarkable ability to snap instantly into madness without reason.
They believed, in short, that to stand next to Peter Duke was to stand next to an angry electric current with the base of its wire in a puddle of water.

It took our less than honorable hero quite some time to make it to his adored café since travel is often difficult when one lacks the equality of limbs. When he did eventually arrive, he propelled himself over to his favorite table, fell into the chair, and awaited the waitress’s presence. He planned to ask for several more napkins than were usually bestowed because he realized that he was dripping blood everywhere and had left a trail that lead out the door and continued down the street to the scene of his dismemberment.
When his napkins and his tea appeared before his eyes he wondered if perhaps it was truly safe to drink the beverage. Had the staff (along with the rest of the city) finally gotten so fed up and disgusted with his abhorrent behavior that they would poison him? He was certain that he would one day meet his end at their hands. He often hoped that if it were to happen it would be slow and painful so that while he endured the torture he would have time to ponder the worthlessness of his years before succumbing to that black abyss where thoughts no longer existed.
He stared at the worn piece of ceramic on the table, debating whether or not he was ready to die. With a tentative hand he lifted the object to his lips and began to drink. Whatever liquid did not spew from the side of him that was a gaping hole went down easily, without a hint of a sting or awkward sensation.
So they had not yet had their fill of him. Peter was not sure if he was pleased or repulsed by this idea. He was grateful to still be alive; he had several pieces of paper that he wished to glue to his wall when he returned home so he needed the extra time. The other point brought forth within his skull was that he was living amongst humans more depraved than he. They were not offended by him or his recent actions. What did it then take to drive his neighbors to their very limits? Could it be that he resided within a society comprised primarily of sociopaths and psychos? It would explain his being in this exact location, that was obvious, but the idea of living around crazed humans frightened him.
He would search out a new city. He would find a place so reserved and sheltered that a mere blink of his eyelid would cause terror to all. Of course, if he moved, he would have to sacrifice his daily routines. What would a different place have to say about his manner of dress? Would they run and hide at the sight of his soon to be stitched form descending a hill into the center of town sporting a ratty old top hat?
The liberties he enjoyed thanks to his city’s understanding of his nature were intoxicating; he would remain here.
Police immunity was definitely a plus as well. No matter how insane his behavior, Peter was never arrested. The police force, in truth, was profoundly confused and frightened by him due to one too many bad scenes that erupted at the station.
Peter would never put up a fight when he was taken in, but he was by no means cooperative. The paperwork filed on him was a botched mess of inconsistencies. The name was identical at the top of each sheet, but the rest of the information was so strange, so out in a realm of its own that attempting to make any sense of the gibberish was a lost cause.
When asked for his birth date, he would sometimes answer that he was born in 1845 or 1711 or any other random year that came into his head. To support his outlandish claims he would commence a lengthy narration of all the year’s events and his personal opinions on each of them. He rather liked the early 1800’s since he had always admired the ambition of Napoleon and relished the chance to discuss his military victories
As for his birth place, it was never listed as London, since Peter decided to sever all ties with that gloriously terrifying place many years ago, but as many different places. Duke, Peter was born in Hong Kong, Moscow, Edmonton, Lima, and even Antarctica, claiming that the only reason he left was because his Eskimo parents shunned him after he tried to coax a whale and a penguin to fight each other to the death while he recorded every strike in his journal.
No matter how crazy Peter’s antics were or were likely to get, he never hurt anyone and that was the bottom line. He was absolutely a menace to himself, but society was safe. So, our man was always set free, and eventually the force didn’t bother to apprehend him anymore. There was really no point anyway since each interrogation lasted roughly four hours due to his stories about lives he never lived. The officers came to the silent conclusion that Peter Duke would be Peter Duke and his actions were to be expected, if not anticipated.
Freedom in this city was, no doubt, his. He could, and often did, conduct himself as he pleased without so much as a wayward glance from the townspeople.
While one half of Peter sat and sipped, the other arrived at the shoe store eager to try on new boots.

Nonsense in Dreams

The ground is soft as two arms, bedraggled and eager, emerge from their damp prison to enlighten the world. Shall we, the soft-spoken cinder blocks of Absurdity, attempt to grab them?

No Room for Water

Tonight we can wait,
and live in the shadows
Like scared pieces of meat
True, I have got no heart,
but the mind of a lunatic is nice
Spawned from my hate
You can see your light
I'm sorry
I never meant to harm you
Sadness can come in spindles
I wake you to your enemies
Fleeing in hats like the ocean
Hiding their long lost gold
Loving the flowers and frying the birds
Sad and happy and mad
Wait a bit,
Take the key to the night,
Of Hell,
Of fury
Time is alive in hopes
Love and death both mingle as one
No room for water

Untitled 4

Life can mean so little to those who do not care to see what it is
How many arms will it take?
How many lives?
How long the wait?
Who shall tend to me when I am gone?
Who shall light the fire?
A priest of sins, perhaps
The leader of a clergy cloaked in lies
His bed, the only place of freedom and red redemption
The change in the tide does not shake his world
He owns costumes of various colors, each with no meaning
This is the side of the world left for the damned
Dead rivers
Dry beaches
Murdered children in wild hoards
Do not think here
Do not reach here
Worlds upon worlds will fall
You lie shivering and I laugh,
Bored in my fog
Hungry for more
A deathtrap you say
A prize, says I
A release
A crumb of freedom
A dry tear from my eye
You cry for your virtues,
I cry for your sin
Evil, you think me
Fowl, a sheep
A king, you are to me
Another life to take
What have I lost, and where has it gone?
To the only room left standing,
The one you built
I can no sooner leave you, although it is a wish, to fly alone
How often do I cry?
How mute?
Do you crave it?
To answer your ears, yes I do run free
But that means nothing
For all my value, I shall never love
Except or except not,
I only am

Drowsy Delirium

When will this eternal barricade cease its attentions?! I grow tired of the inflicted delirium, I long for a scrap of rest. Oh! That I might lay my skull upon a stone for a moment. Allow solitude to creep in, silently, with that now foreign light step. I miss this small privilege

Untitled 3

Since the beginning of this eternal journey, you have been salivating for sustenance. The roar escaping your lips is merely a representative of your natural tendency for sadism. Oh, how pleasant it is to look upon you in this state; your hair mangled and dirty, your features contorted and your ability to speak stolen by your savage thoughts. I admire you most when you secretly plot the downfall of your enemies. You wish to satisfy your perverse nature by removing their heads for tokens and later, their very souls. That I might one day hold your hand, Creature! How tempting you are in your cape of Sin. I stand as worshiper and inferior! Love has arrived in this heart!

Black Hackney

Psychic explosions happening in hoards. They rush, crumble, blow past my eyes. Who drives this carriage of Madness? A sane man? Never! My horseman is haggard, thin, pale, scruffy, wild with wisps of hair over his dark, devouring eyes. He steers with such an elegant grace, how could I pass up his services? Bubbling, brewing, festering are the thoughts he's born.

He seldom gets lost but when he does it is never for long. He always returns with the swagger of a dragonfly to captivate and enrapture all senses.

He is patient. He always arrives when creativity is sparse and hopes seem lost. You will not hear him arrive, do not attempt to listen for his wheels or his steed. Know only that he watches, waits, for you to summon him. Shall you? Do you dare call upon his talents? Indeed, are you so clever?

Untitled 2

Decency and degradation slipping into an abyss of slimy correctness. How can I, if I can, trade my will to forfeit the long standing desires of society and woe. Perhaps it is simple. I can dispose of my sentiments and fears and assume a higher, better revolutionary justice in lieu of depression and cerebral bursts

Mon Souffle

I am youth, I die now
When your hands curl around me
I aspire, I consume all
the colors you've thrown me
I lie, deep in your shadow
I rise to meet the time
When you speak I fly down
To the land of
The Righteous,
I can't find my
Sentences
Anymore
I see better than I saw
When your light was still
Shining

Mon Legionnaire

Product of my boredom




(Serge Gainsbourg- Mon Legionnaire/ Wolfgang Gartner- Fire Power)

Blinded by Nostalgia...

Missing Sicily







Ti amo, Santa Flavia...

Duke of Albion, Chapter 1

Chapter 1
He runs at thirteen; he is efficient in two


Peter awoke only to find himself once again a prisoner of his own pointless existence. The remnants of last night’s (or perhaps several nights before, it was hard to be sure since Peter was known to sleep for days at a time in some kind of substance induced half-death) party were evident all around, bathing the room in a depressive after math of debauchery.
Slapping his hand, heavy with the weight of a wasted life, to his face he decided not to move, but rather to remain as the lump he had been for whatever amount of time had indeed passed, and sit in his chair. He had lost so many minutes, hours, days, to absolutely nothing that another minute couldn’t possibly destroy anything.
As he sat, his thoughts began to run wild. What had happened when last he was awake? He had no friends that were worth remembering if indeed others were responsible for the mess that was strewn before him. Perhaps it was an act solely committed by he himself. But no, why then go to such lengths to create this territory of rubbish? This was surely the work of strangers, religious fanatics angry at his godless existence. How had they gotten in? His flat was high enough that entry by window was surely impossible. The door then, he pondered. They must have broken it down with a wooden cross and continued to bash and break their way through his possessions while he peacefully slept; surely he didn’t open the door for these bastards. What trickery would they have to use to reach this goal if it was so? He could not give them and their tongues so much credit. He knew he was being over-analytical if anything but for the time being, it seemed fitting to blame worshipers. After all, what haven’t they been known to destroy?
Seeing as how he did not make this mess he certainly had no intention of cleaning it and began to rise from his chair with the mind to dress himself and perhaps venture out into the city.
The image reflected in the bathroom mirror, he thought, bore hardly any resemblance to him as the eyes were without light, the skin dull and grayish and the hair possibly dryer than straw. Despite his physical distractions this was a good day. His skull was not aching with the pains delivered swiftly and often by his lingering childhood fears and the strange birds he usually saw flying around his head were nowhere to be found.
“Marvelous”, he mused. “Finally I shall have solace and solitude without that infernal flapping of wings and clapping of beaks filled with the bodies of lowly creatures” Although, should they return, and hungry, they might be struck with the fancy to feast on his ears and extract from them all his knowledge although there was not much to be found.
“Let them try. I shall remove their wings with my garden shears if they attempt to rob me of my thoughts” Peter eyed the enormous, rusting clippers that he had mounted onto the bathroom wall for precisely such an occasion. They shimmered, almost beckoned him to free them from their holsters so that they could dance their way into the lives of others and claim them for their own.
No. Not today, not now. They would remain where they were. There is nothing more dangerous than angry garden shears with appetites for revenge and insatiable hunger. He would be forced to let them down and thought it wise to shimmy out of the room sideways so that they would not notice his departure or the reason behind it it.
Once free from his new enemies he stalked to the window to survey the often crowded streets below. If at any time there were more than 13 people on the street besides Peter, he would return to his flat and wait, sitting in his window counting until the number returned to its safety point at which time he would once again try his excursion. The preciseness of his phobia was acute; 13 meant that if they were to break into groups of two bent on his destruction, (a thing that was sure to happen one day soon at the rate he was going) one would be separated, left with no partner, and by default, nominate himself as the canvas for Peter’s showmanship. One he could handle, he could devour, leaving the others so badly horrified and incapacitated by fear that they would cease in their endeavor, and set our man once again on his way.
Upon seeing that there were but five others taking their morning strolls, Peter threw on his tattered velvet overcoat, stomped down the stairs and out the door.
His purpose was clear in mind on this day; he would go to his favorite café for tea before proceeding onwards to buy new boots. To anyone else, a day such as this would seem unbearably dull but to Peter Duke it presented an interesting challenge. The café was located at the end of a miniscule alley off a deserted street in the oldest part of town and the shoe store in the modern quarter. In order to accomplish both tasks at hand he realized that he must combine these two worlds. Old and new, in his eyes, did not belong together. If you are to spend any moment of your day in the old district, there you should remain for the duration. Naturally, the same went for the modern quarter, so Peter could not see how his plans were going to fall in line. He must tackle both errands, but he could not abandon his rituals, this he knew and it irritated him profoundly.
Wiping the gray rain from his brow he marched on towards the shabby café, his head swimming in confusion and indecision. Perhaps he could find some great knife with which to split himself in two. That way he could be in both sectors on the same day without breaking any self-made laws. Yes, yes, a knife or a sword would do nicely although he was not sure how he would repair himself once the venture was concluded and both halves awaited their reunification.
Surely there must be some great doctor with experience in this field. That was it then, he would seek one out! Content in his plan, he continued on in his stride towards his seething cup of tea, all the while searching vigorously for a store selling cutlery.
To the extreme pleasure of his eyes, he spotted that which he wanted at the end of his own street. A small, dark shop with nearly rotted shingles on its roof and a sign that was no longer completely visible read ‘Kitchen Wares’.
Peter entered the tiny establishment to find an elderly man seated behind the old pine counter at the very back of the shop. Believing it better not to waste time looking for his weapon of choice, he decided to ask the owner which one he thought to be of relative sufficiency.
“Pardon me, Sir, but what type of knife would one use if they wanted to be in two places at once? That is to say…which is best for slicing through bone?” The old man raised his eyebrows in reaction to Mr. Duke’s bold statement but simply motioned for our hero to follow him down the aisle towards the silverware.
“This one happens to be quite sharp”, he said holding up a blade of about seven inches that glistened like a child’s eyes on Christmas morning.
“Yes, it is a lovely piece of metal but the serrations will tear my skin; I seek something that leaves but clean cuts. A large scale scalpel if you will”
“You may try the cleaver, then. As long as you slice quickly, you will have your clean cuts”. The old man tentatively handed Peter a rather large, square tool with a bulky handle made of wood and metal. The object immediately felt right to Peter and the smile that overtook his face was uncontrollable.
“Fine craftsmanship, I’ll take it. And any cutting boards you might have would be greatly appreciated as well. Thicker would be better, I think.”
After leaving the shop with all that he needed, he proceeded down a small alcove that hid him completely from view. Placing the new block of wood on the ground and positioning his feet on it, he raised his instrument and thrust his arm downwards into his skull.
He was surprised by his own strength as the knife continued to fly straight through his being in a perfect line. Oh, do not doubt, blood was shed, but this small factor aside the operation had been a great success. Peter was now split in half and free to act as he would.
With not so much as a glance at each other, the two parts of Mr. Duke set off in their separate directions to complete their separate tasks.

Nouveau Maldoror

While strolling through a crowd of baboons, my mind races. Ideas, words, mental fire erupt within the confines of my cranium. Blink, and you shall miss the spark of hate that reveals itself in the corner of my eye. I watch you all attentively. Each small, awkward slip up on your part feeds my soul. I do not walk alone. I am accompanied in my stride by Maldoror. The two of us, the two silent fiends, hand in hand at all times, stop to survey our prey. I turn my head to my beloved, roguish creature, and, with a sly grin, comprehend all his deliciously perverse thoughts. No, we shall not randomly select a subject upon which to release our debauchery just yet. Today the sky is overcast and we prefer to sit and stare at the parade of folly in front of us.
We go unseen. You mistake our silence for innocence. Maldoror enjoys the invisibility. The privilege of remaining hidden allows him to better express himself. He is not shy, but he caters to me and the trait does come and go within myself. His grip tightens on my hand. So intertwined are we now that I could never break away. He will never release our bond. If ever we part I suggest that world take cover. What stalks you now would only get worse. Maldoror will steal your children, take your lives, all in search of me. Be thankful that my desire is as strong as his hand; it is for your own good.
Restraint is ever present where we are. We are not cold; we long to display our affections. I feel, very clearly, the clawed thumb that massages my palm and yearns to explore more. I am sure he feels the tingle he provokes in return, but we, neither of us, say anything. Instead, we watch. We watch the baboons scuttle and jump and duck and dive through and around us. Eyes forward, backs straight, gazes averting each other yet seeing all. None shall crack into our world. We are the fiends that do the cracking…usually of baboon skulls

Untitled

Close the tomes that so inspire you, they fill your head with clouds. Joy comes from the great epicenter of my soul, it is there that you must seek it. Appease my selfish desire, you will be glad you obliged. I will crawl into your skin and staple your heart to mine. That is where it belongs, you have always been mine, even in your foggiest memory you walked hand in hand with me frothing at the mouth for more. You can see it, you can feel it, you want to run but you are frozen under my grasp. I will not release what is rightfully mine, I will slay for your affection if I must. And I have. I am destroyed under the gaze of my immaculate dolmen

Les Chants de Maldoror, 2nd Canto excerpt

Faisant ma promenade quotidienne, chaque jour je passais dans
une rue étroite; chaque jour, une jeune fille svelte de dix
ans me suivait, à distance, respectueusement, le long de cette
rue, en me regardant avec des paupières sympathiques et
curieuses. Elle était grande pour son âge et avait la taille
élancée. D'abondants cheveux noirs, séparés en deux sur la
tête, tombaient en tresses indépendantes sur des épaules
marmoréennes. Un jour, elle me suivait comme de coutume; les
bras musculeux d'une femme du peuple la saisit par les
cheveux, comme le tourbillon saisit la feuille, appliqua deux
gifles brutales sur une joue fière et muette, et ramena dans
la maison cette conscience égarée. En vain, je faisais
l'insouciant; elle ne manquait jamais de me poursuivre de sa
présence devenue inopportune. Lorsque j'enjambais une autre
rue, pour continuer mon chemin, elle s'arrêtait, faisant un
violent effort sur elle-même, au terme de cette rue étroite,
immobile comme la statue du Silence, et ne cessait de regarder
devant elle, jusqu'à ce que je disparusse. Une fois, cette
jeune fille me précéda dans la rue, et emboîta le pas devant
moi. Si j'allais vite pour la dépasser, elle courait presque
pour maintenir la distance égale; mais, si je ralentissais le
pas, pour qu'il y eût un intervalle de chemin, assez grand
entre elle et moi, alors, elle le ralentissait aussi, et y
mettait la grâce de l'enfance. Arrivée au terme de la rue,
elle se retourna lentement, de manière à me barrer le passage.
Je n'eus pas le temps de m'esquiver, et je me trouvai devant
sa figure. Elle avait les yeux gonflés et rouges. Je voyais
facilement qu'elle voulait me parler, et qu'elle ne savait
comment s'y prendre. Devenue subitement pâle comme un cadavre,
elle me demanda: « Auriez-vous la bonté de me dire quelle
heure est-il? » Je lui dis que je ne portais pas de montre,
et je m'éloignai rapidement. Depuis ce jour, enfant à
l'imagination inquiète et précoce, tu n'as plus revu, dans la
rue étroite, le jeune homme mystérieux qui battait
péniblement, de sa sandale lourde, le pavé des carrefours
tortueux. L'apparition de cette comète enflammée ne reluira
plus, comme un triste sujet de curiosité fanatique, sur la
façade de ton observation déçue; et, tu penseras souvent, trop
souvent, peut-être toujours, à celui qui ne paraissait pas
s'inquiéter des maux, ni des biens de la vie présente, et s'en
allait au hasard, avec une figure horriblement morte, les
cheveux hérissés, la démarche chancelante, et les bras nageant
aveuglément dans les eaux ironiques de l'éther, comme pour y
chercher la proie sanglante de l'espoir, ballottée
continuellement, à travers les immenses régions de l'espace,
par le chasse-neige implacable de la fatalité. Tu ne me verras
plus, et je ne te verrai plus!... Qui sait? Peut-être que
cette fille n'était pas ce qu'elle se montrait. Sous une
enveloppe naïve, elle cachait peut-être une immense ruse, le
poids de dix-huit années, et le charme du vice. On a vu des
vendeuses d'amour s'expatrier avec gaîté des îles
Britanniques, et franchir le détroit. Elles rayonnaient leurs
ailes, en tournoyant, en essaims dorés, devant la lumière
parisienne; et, quand vous les apperceviez, vous disiez: «
Mais elles sont encore enfants; elles n'ont pas plus de dix ou
douze ans. » En réalité elles en avaient vingt. Oh! dans cette
supposition, maudits soient-ils les détours de cette rue
obscure! Horrible! horrible! ce qui s'y passe. Je crois que sa
mère la frappa parce qu'elle ne faisait pas son métier avec
assez d'adresse. Il est possible que ce ne fût qu'un enfant,
et alors la mère est plus coupable encore. Moi, je ne veux pas
croire à cette supposition, qui n'est qu'une hypothèse, et je
préfère aimer, dans ce caractère romanesque, une âme qui se
dévoile trop tôt... Ah! vois-tu, jeune fille, je t'engage à ne
plus reparaître devant mes yeux, si jamais je repasse dans la
rue étroite. Il pourrait t'en coûter cher! Déjà le sang et la
haine me montent vers la tête, à flots bouillants. Moi, être
assez généreux pour aimer mes semblables! Non, non! Je l'ai
résolu depuis le jour de ma naissance! Ils ne m'aiment pas,
eux! On verra les mondes se détruire, et le granit glisser,
comme un cormoran, sur la surface des flots, avant que je
touche la main infâme d'un être humain. Arrière... arrière,
cette main!... Jeune fille, tu n'es pas un ange, et tu
deviendras, en somme, comme les autres femmes. Non, non, je
t'en supplie; ne reparais plus devant mes sourcils froncés et
louches. Dans un moment d'égarement, je pourrais te prendre
les bras, les tordre comme un linge lavé dont on exprime
l'eau, ou les casser avec fracas, comme deux branches sèches,
et te les faire ensuite manger, en employant la force. Je
pourrais, en prenant ta tête entre mes mains, d'un air
caressant et doux, enfoncer mes doigts avides dans les lobes
de ton cerveau innocent, pour en extraire, le sourire aux
lèvres, une graisse efficace qui lave mes yeux, endoloris par
l'insomnie éternelle de la vie. Je pourrais, cousant tes
paupières avec une aiguille, te priver du spectacle de
l'univers, et te mettre dans l'impossibilité de trouver ton
chemin; ce n'est pas moi qui te servirai de guide. Je
pourrais, soulevant ton corps vierge avec un bras de fer, te
saisir par les jambes, te faire rouler autour de moi, comme
une fronde, concentrer mes forces en décrivant la dernière
circonférence, et te lancer contre la muraille. Chaque goutte
de sang rejaillira sur une poitrine humaine, pour effrayer les
hommes, et mettre devant eux l'exemple de ma méchanceté! Ils
s'arracheront sans trève des lambeaux et des lambeaux de
chair; mais, la goutte de sang reste ineffaçable, à la même
place, et brillera comme un diamant. Sois tranquille, je
donnerai à une demi-douzaine de domestiques l'ordre de garder
les restes vénérés de ton corps, et de les préserver de la
faim des chiens voraces. Sans doute, le corps est resté plaqué
sur la muraille, comme une poire mûre, et n'est pas tombé à
terre; mais, les chiens savent accomplir des bonds élevés, si
l'on n'y prend garde.

-Compte de Lautréamont

Isitown

Swaying with energy, the winds of discord pass unknown, unseen.
You shudder, then smile as they tickle your pale cheek. You sit, window
standing ajar in your dark room, pondering the melancholies of life. No
other but you has ever studied them so intensely. How to present them?
The normal world has such an issue with vulgarity because they cannot
find the beauty in these vivid descriptions as we can.

Continue your silent reverie, darling, the wakes left by the waves of your thoughts calm
the room.

Could you ever embody the soul of another?! Surely not, my
unique prince. You are such a monument in my mind; your likeness
cast out of pure debauchery and your base out of ignored morals. How
tall you stand, how regal and corrupt. My thoughts, the civilians of this
mental village, gather around your forged form to find inspiration. They
leave you offerings that you never fail to except, and in return, my
inhabitants are nourished. They look to you not only for inspiration, but
for the gift of life itself. It is your image that rattles in the center of this
cerebral town.

In actuality, you remain in your chair; your velvet throne in the
Palace of Creativity. How I long to join you, your highness. The
impenetrable fortress of Time is far too strong. I can only slightly graze
your ghostly hand with my own through one of its windows.
There you have it. You have overtaken my life with the same
sacrilegious hands you used to create the notes which first infiltrated
my sleeping thoughts. Bravo, Monsieur!