I am the Blade

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  2. I Am The Blade
  3. L'Héautontimouroménos (The Self-Tormenter) by Charles Baudelaire
  4. They Call Him "Sword"

I'll strike you, but without the least Anger — as butchers poll an ox, Or Moses, when he struck the rocks — That from your eyelid thus released,. The lymph of suffering may brim To slake my desert of its drought. So my desire, by hope made stout, Upon your salty tears may swim,. Like a proud ship, far out from shore.

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Within my heart, which they'll confound With drunken joy, your sobs will sound Like drums that beat a charge in war. Am I not a faulty chord In all this symphony divine, Thanks to the irony malign That shakes and cuts me like a sword? It's in my voice, the raucous jade! It's in my blood's black venom too! I am the looking-glass, wherethrough Megera sees herself portrayed! I am the wound, and yet the blade! The smack, and yet the cheek that takes it! The limb, and yet the wheel that breaks it, The torturer, and he who's flayed!

One of the sort whom all revile, A Vampire, my own blood I quaff, Condemned to an eternal laugh Because I know not how to smile. I mean to strike you without hate, As butchers do; as Moses did The rock. From under either lid Your tears will flow to inundate. This huge Sahara which is I. My heart, insensible with pain, Caught in that flood will live again: Will care whether it live or die —. Will strive as in the salty sea, Drunken with brine and all but drowned, Yet driven onward by the sound Of your wild sobbing endlessly!

For look — I am at war, my dear, With the whole universe.


I Am The Blade

I know There is no medicine for my woe. Believe me, it is called Despair. It runs in all my veins. I pray: It cries in all my words. I am The very glass where what I damn Leers and admires itself all day.

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I am the wound — I am the knife The deep wound scabbards; the outdrawn Rack, and the writhing thereupon; The lifeless, and the taker of life. I murder what I most adore, Laughing: I am indeed of those Condemned for ever without repose To laugh — but who can smile no more. I shall cleave without scrape or shock, And, like a butcher, without hate, Like Moses, when he struck the rock. From your eyes I shall generate Waters of woe throughout the years To quench my fierce Sahara fires, Swollen with vast hope, my desires Shall float upon your bitter tears Like a proud vessel, sailing large; And in my heart, drunk at the sound, Your cherished sobbing shall resound Like drums beating the long lost charge.

Am I not a discordant note In the celestial symphony, Thanks to voracious Irony Who shakes and bites me at the throat? She's in my voice, the scold; her black Poison is all my blood, alas! I am the direful looking glass Which flashes her reflection back. I am the wound, the knives that strike, The blows that crush, the head that reels, I am wrenched limbs and grinding wheels, Victim and hangman, as you like! Vampire of my own heart, meanwhile, A derelict, I am of those Doomed to eternal laughter's throes, Yet powerless to frame a smile!

I'd slip it to you Without the least qualm or queasiness Like a butcher slitting the throat of a chimp Or Bunuel turning the bourgeois into a limp gallery Of frustrated meat. What, the waters of suffering to Slake the Saharas of my desire? I have slammed over a thousand jams.

L'Héautontimouroménos (The Self-Tormenter) by Charles Baudelaire

Unknown to slam. Nor known to jam. Withstood DMCA takedown notices to slam many jams.

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  6. Yet these slams will never jam anything. So as I jam, Unlimited Slam Works.

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