A Ballad for Maldoror

Isidore Ducasse, Isidore Ducasse,

Le Comte de Lautréamont,

Lived in an infinite impasse

And a most precarious au fond.

He was the black saint of Assisi,

His tail in a red love-knot;

For him, Calvary was an easy

Excursion to a darling spot.

Surprise him in his alien lair

In the fierce folds of his fur;

For a lyre, strumming a hair,

Curling up with his heart's cur.

Loving only what he loved to mock,

He hurled his North at your South

While the clipped cries of the peacock

Grew dulcet in his mouth.

The beak of his soul thirsted

For the flesh and blood of love

But, zoölogically, he was worsted

By the titanic hate of the dove.

The storm, the beast, and the sea

Wove his round, gentle garland;

Tooth and claw and gallows-tree

Gemmed and nimbused his star-band.

What he wrote staggers history

But it flew on home-made wings:

Never was less transitory

Burnt wax and Icarean strings!

And when he sang of suffering

And the matchless grandeur of pain,

It was Judas' high yammering

And his Kiss as it rang in the brain.