Infatuation, sadism, lust, avarice possess our souls and drain the body's force; we spoonfeed our adorable remorse, like ######s or beggars nourishing their lice.
Our sins are mulish, our confessions lies; we play to the grandstand with our promises, we pray for tears to wash our filthiness; importantly pissing hogwash through our styes.
The devil, watching by our sickbeds, hissed old smut and folk-songs to our soul, until the soft and precious metal of our will boiled off in vapor for this scientist.
Each day his flattery makes us eat a toad, and each step forward is a step to hell, unmoved, through previous corpses and their smell asphyxiate our progress on this road.
Like the poor lush who cannot satisfy, we try to force our sex with counterfeits, die drooling on the deliquescent tits, mouthing the rotten orange we suck dry.
Gangs of demons are boozing in our brain -- ranked, swarming, like a million warrior-ants, they drown and choke the cistern of our wants; each time we breathe, we tear our lungs with pain.
If poison, arson, sex, narcotics, knives have not yet ruined us and stitched their quick, loud patterns on the canvas of our lives, it is because our souls are still too sick.
Among the vermin, jackals, panthers, lice, gorillas and tarantulas that suck and snatch and scratch and defecate and #### in the disorderly circus of our vice,
there's one more ugly and abortive birth. It makes no gestures, never beats its breast, yet it would murder for a moment's rest, and willingly annihilate the earth.
It's BOREDOM. Tears have glued its eyes together. You know it well, my Reader. This obscene beast chain-smokes yawning for the guillotine -- you -- hypocrite Reader -- my double -- my brother! Au Lecteur, by Charles Baudelaire. Translated by Robert Lowell
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