Ashy lady, damned Jeanne Duval! How she tears at my heart with her venomed claws, raking me to ecstasies that make me forget the regrettable ideals of the poet–his reclusive and rightful access to all that is permanent, and heavenly, and gauche in its limiless goodness! Those eyes spark dark fire, that skin is a palimpsest of tattooed wooing, black like the shadow under pine trees that calls the wanderer on–to die lost and forsaken. How that echoes with all my sense of my own livid life! These blackened leavings of an angel whose celestial being burned all the way to the ground, misting heavy clouds as she fell. Her very existence is a splinter in my heart! How I hate her! How I must have her, must rub my nothingness between her charcoal legs, churning everlastingly as the damned in Hell on their gerbil pinwheels. Black Venus, you are she whose eyelashes are incentive to suicides, and which calm the man of valor back to his habitual cowardice. Take me, and know my littleness; lower me into the dirt with your contaminating ‘love.’ I, who am nothing, ask nothing. Roll your midnights over me, as the printer rolls ink onto his plates. Where you stick, I have speech, where you leave no trace–that is the absence of you that men call virtue.
Paint me, taint me, till I am as black as you, my condemned, demented dear Jeanne Duval.
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