Poète Maudit

[ Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme une rêve de pierre] [The Beloved woke. We became That and the lake is crystal clear] [comme un lait nourricier et bleu; je suis suspendu à vos bouches femmes, cœur de vinaigre durs Iness, Invité] I dissolve Clonazepam into Laudanum and swallow my Venlafaxine down, Then light up a Marlboro and take a deep puff, exhaling it at the full moon, hiding herself partially behind the grey clouds My eyes are closed, my room is dark and only a faint, flickering image of your face appear before me, Neena, Art thou a mirage or someone real? An angel caught up in earth Or, A daemon of my imagination? You replied well to another poet, but to me, you were always vague, deliberately keeping me on the edge, with your melodramatic over reactions. And what I thought to be a wheel of passion, was actually the wheel of fortune, the thread was snapped way before I realised my fate. But in the end, are there any difference between the two? I probably misunderstood both those wheels, they take you nowhere, but make you roam in a strange circle only to lead you to disappointment and nothingness. This nothingness is now my life as I sit on a canvas chair on the balcony, looking at a couple of dogs on the street and their burning eyes while a few cats fly across the sky. And I have a razor on my hand, I want to slit my wrists, and finish this whole business for ever. 'Que voluz-vous? ', I hear the fiend ask me from inside, and all I do is cut my thighs, a couple of straight A's across both ones, Are those scarlet or mere red? I know not, for all I see is your image, your eyes covered in glasses, but I feel the blood run through my legs, warm and with a life of its own, It turns the Lake red And the Blood does speak, as it flows in an asymetrical pattern 'You are the Theban King, who's eyes are intact, You are his daughter without the walls around her, You are the Prince from Denmark, without his philosophy and eloquence, You are the woman directed toward the nunnery without drowning yet, You are Antoine Roquentin, You are Esther Greenwood, You are madame Sosostris and her client at the same time You are Lèon Robinson and Ferdinand too, You're Kurtz and Marlow, You are everything and nothing, You are yourself, and someone else too.... You are your own doppelgänger You are, my fellow, a poète maudit...