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Baudelaire

Harry Crosby 1898 (Boston) – 1929 (New York City)

I think I understand you, Baudelaire,
With all your strangeness and perverted ways,
You whose fierce hatred of dull working days
Led you to seek your macabre visions there
Where shrouded night came creeping to ensnare
Your phantomfevered brain, with subtle maze
Of decomposéd loves, remorse, dismays,
And all the gnawing of a world's despair.
Within my soul you've set your blackest flag
And made my disillusioned heart your tomb ;
My mind which once was young and virginal
Is now a swamp, a spleenfilled pregnant womb
Of things abominable, things androgynal,
Flowers of Dissolution, Fleurs du Mal.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

30 sec read
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Harry Crosby

Harry Lillis Crosby III is an American actor, singer, and investment banker. more…

All Harry Crosby poems | Harry Crosby Books

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