THE INFANTRYMAN AND BAUDELAIRE

Poor Charles he took his sins so seriously;

each time he bought a drink Man fell again;

he suffered himalayas; demons pinched him:

symbols oh yes, but still they smelled,

they had the good authentic gothic air

of meaning blood and dealing hell

and swatting men between a woman’s breasts.

Maybe he’d loved his chère maman too much,

poor Charles, but come, it must have been quite nice

to feel that Lucifer himself broke through

Voltaire to damn him in particular

for lapping at a Caribbean wench;

it must have been a treat to face a God

you could shock half to death by showing him

where two of his bare daughters fooled against

the code, “Their ghastly cult unhinged the sun.”

I envy you. I murdered women, children, men

last war by soaking them in flames,

the rest are weeping starved and sick,

and what I say is “yeah, too bad” and look about,

afraid I’ve overdone the fancy rhetoric.