Tattoo Rugs And Runners

Le fleurs du mal

wanted Fatu-chan better explore my feminine side, told me that all my women characters always had final cruel or mediocre lives, so here I am, 5 cigarettes after a toast with cream cheese, too many times to Baker Street and the desire to not be so cliché, total, 6 in the morning but I think the result is satisfactory. Are faced with a poem-fic (?) If something like a songfic but with different pieces of poems instead of a song.

Le fleurs du mal

l 'amour fatale

Never happened to them it is folly, our own mistakes, guilt and atavistic remnants of our minds, greed and the eternal desire of most are those who occupy our minds and consume our body work? They are like beggars at the threshold of our dwellings, feeding and nurturing of our misery, they survive based on our regrets. Are the sin of our vain passions.
is stubborn, cowardly, hiding in our desires and frustrations, and finally appears with his finger and makes us pay all lived and forgotten, and when after the tears and guilt we are forgotten and die in fall sulfur from the same water just to escape.

My poor muse, alas! What happens this morning
Your eyes are full of delusions
night And I see reflected in your complexion with reluctance
madness, horror, cold and taciturn

are the charm of our soul, that we are perverts with the precious metal to sell ourselves, and imprisons the will, to see how attractive the most disgusting, for each day a step down into the abyss where we will stink and tormenting darkness ancestral rites.
is the oldest and fiercest of the punishments, the most insidious and the less said, makes your life like an outcast, swallowing the world in a yawn, and smile fills us with boredom. Everything
this I win? Corrupted my best virtues are extolled my vices, by now I care, look into the abyss and it looked back at me, now it's not beyond me.
why I stand here alone in my room, surrounded by my heroes, immortalized them looking at me from the walls and paper houses, listening again and again the evening of Chopin and his beautiful sadness, no doubt Life without music would be a mistake.

My youth was just scary lightning storm
soles of alternating joy and
-ray of rain have made such havoc in my garden
That's just what has been has

Exactly in whom I am thinking? What I had and I lost for my mistakes? "You? Not exactly, should feel as I do, I always find a way to forget everything, to lose myself in myself and light or cigarette, I feel sorry for losing you, do not miss you, but lying if say that I miss your love, strange feel loved, I miss being under your arms and knowing that I want, but you, you do not miss you curious is it true? Madness would call my friends who still believe in eternal love and the insincerity of the soul. Perhaps
that is why we exist, to think and regret as time eats the life, there is nothing that lasts forever and as our enemy lurks in us, growing and gaining strength and that in the autumn of our lives are extended mantles in the earth and furrows in the earth are our souls by paying others who repeat the drama of this comedy useless.

those beauties will never
Products damaged bullet that took a century
Feet empty boots, brown fingers
Those content to a heart like mine

Who do I think?, In these times that I have brought nothing new in public asylums white walls, red rabies invade the hearts of those who have nothing to cling to, but mostly, I think the fear of feeling good What I intend? Maybe he just is not having any illusions, and not get hurt you, but I know this can not be too many things tying me to this world to be able to leave this negragrisblanca luck, I would not be able to feel, be as cold as the moon, to feel is a weakness that I can not stand.
So I sink into the poetry, there where no parameters tried in humans, there where there is neither good nor evil, that true freedom ethereal region. And weeping nymphs
we hit with the poison, fire and the knife, play with our desire and embroider on our skin its whimsical drawings, will tease us with that word called destiny, escape unpunished to know ourselves very little daring .
why we run, but the flowers of evil does not allow us to be.

When deep sleep, my beautiful dark
A black marble vault built
and I have no more for room and That a rained
dwelling cave and a hollow pit

And more that I think and think, I always come to the conclusion that death is the only true freedom, and yet only think of a tomb cold and can feel the cold, even after death, the film is always trying to commit suicide as something inconsequential, man pointing the gun and shoot the head, the woman in red dress taking pi medicine or pills to sleep and lost in a night's sleep, which never mention is that before he died and his bowels loosen any debris out of the body, an image of very unpleasant death.
then? What is the key that can not find the door can not see? Where is this paradise we were promised at birth, the utopia of peace and tranquility can not find anywhere? It was just a lie, like many others that we were to fall into this world, I get to the Greeks who cried to the child being born and unwoven the old ones died.
and I "But one day be free?

disease, death, fire ashes are burning
for us and we lit
From that mouth where the heart drowning
Of those large eyes, burning or ask

And this book? Why am I so obsessed with? In the end there is more than a weapon, is beautiful but deadly, but that does not sink deeper and deeper into my passions, leaving me dry and forgotten in history, What I have left? Taster of all wines and dock at each port that is that what my parents expected of me? I can not stay in any place, always moving, looking for a place that is mine, Central America, North Africa, the Mediterranean, and end of the road was as empty as when I started, only a few years more and a loneliness that was beside myself, so I had to share it, but me and my eternal errors I'm not so unconscious as to blame the other, the only constant in all this was me, and that has not changed, is a Legion of the French Republic, is a Greek or a clerk hippie Panamanian to force my soul misadventures has become dark, and do not blame them if they end up hating.
No more guilty than me.

Each flower evaporates like a censer
Violin is like a broken heart Melancholy waltz cadence
rocked
The sky is sad and beautiful as solitary altar

And that is what I got? A book of poems, some old posters of wrestlers and a pack of cigarettes What that forces us to fight? At the end they always end up alone in the end we die alone, fulfilling the same crude joke again and again So little worth? This world is crazy, and all I wanted was to find a place to call my own, I was the eternal nomad, and in my search a site belonging to belong only complete fire and wine, the memories intoxicating in the air, the eyes are closed in an instant, the vertigo of my soul spear expired and even deeper into my soul and injury. You look like a song
Rafferty, always saying that the new year would be happy to leave the night ye drink will get me some land and establish quiet or small town " Why I can not? Who
remind me enough to stay in his memory and honor my memory? I can no longer enjoy anything or even a sinister memory, if I did something big, something that shows I was here, I get to EROSTRATO and that fire that temple, maybe I should do the same, well maybe, do not forget me.

How to filter it came in to tea
Drown in this harsh and greedy
Destroyer
as a courtesan, and the ant patient?
How to filter it came in to tea?

What do I need to stay in one place? What I've been looking without finding that makes me move? I could not find them, and while I hold both the loneliness that eventually I could not not stay by myself, so maybe escape from it, I pushed too much, I offered my soul and my body Why , not my heart? Fear. To forget when I needed to take my things and escape, when love could come to my terrified girl ran like the wolf "that I have served all these years of traveling, seeing the world, accumulating knowledge if the final will be killed in a social security hospital? So where is
by all that fight? If at the end I am only a slave of the passions but caused flowers of evil, the beauty that seduces and leads to destruction, the music reaches the ear and drag her in search for the transcendental, to taste the forbidden emotions are "slaves just over the flowers of evil? What does more need to forget? "The eternal refrain of love?

Soon we will gather in the cold darkness
Farewell, bright skies and summer evenings
and that noise is heard among funeral mist
That break in the cold wood pens.

And all this time I've been waiting for, the scent of smell loss, laughter torn agony, something that makes me feel life, to think, feel and there, which I offer when you need more, when you lose my way, let me again someday. But I've always been lost in the fog, looking at infinity, see if you get that it will never come, but the route continues, this road, the wind and just drying my tears, always fast, and relay ; mpage in the cold night, crossing forever, never stopping "both I flee from myself? The only explanation I give is that the evil genius of Descartes plays too much with me, that I move or have just finished looking at myself.
I be free one day maybe my search?

Tell me your heart, Agate, sometimes fleeing
Far from the black ocean of the filthy city
Looking for another sea that sparkles and flows
Blue, clear, deep which virginity?
Tell me your heart, Agate, sometimes running away from?

How true, the world is how we see, in the absence of interpreters is when words and truths become lies these only remain, is when we see that the whole engine to be ready to take the rest of the world has not been strong enough to remove rmelo all, but where? I find consolation in my desire to write verses to Dulcinea.
Always running in circles, always looking, never found, well at least my end is where I started.
If things are going to end so I sink more than once, before you completely lose the best job in the world ended, I prefer at least choose the time and place, if the only consolation my turn is able to choose my end, I prefer it as he always lived: with the heart vacíoy a gun in his hand.

was looking now at its sensual laziness troubled
By pure heaven
distant childhood Like a traveler who turns his head towards the beautiful horizon
I cross one morning

I smoke a last cigarette could take some of Bourbon, maybe even get drunk but I prefer to be aware when it's over, but no, I have fear that somebody stop me! But I'm not Robert Ressler, no one here to avoid terms with this, I will not kill anyone, I just want to end my misery, why not want to go?
and pass by a bridge, and hear a saxophone, is deep and powerful, is melancholy and beautiful, one last time, the music alone does not realize that this cheering me my last moments on earth, if even Baudelaire saw the beauty and came to cling to a life for this and the pleasures provided why I can not do in my last moments? plays more and more, even could make out the smooth sax of the night passes, Orion is lost, the polar star is lost, the bears are lost and Quetzalcoatl appears illuminating the morning, the end of play and already morning, the first rays of just starting out, puts his instrument case and comes up to me, is, the same who leave for my cowardice, you must hate me but it just looks at me and smiles.
- Do not cry more, give me your hand, tell me your luck, so maybe it's not death, we dulled the pain.

Well? What has seemed a new scan of my feminine side? In case you are interested these are the poems that used for the story, all are


Baudelaire Flowers of Evil

VIII sick Muse X
XVIII The enemy
XXXIII Regret The ideal

XXXVIII A posthumous portrait
Phantom IV XLVII Harmony pm I irreparable

LIV Canto LVI LXII
fall Moesta et wandering


Offal
III Women Sentenced