domingo, 14 de março de 2010

Xochicuicatl

Bem vindo a Xochicuicatl, um espaço secreto em Xibalba dedicado à música.

Uma Curiosidade Sobre "Le Vene di Lucretia"

"Le Vene di Lucretia" mostra influencias de "Madre del Vizio" e "Rozz Williams"


Amore Fede Speranza - Madre del Vizio


A Fire of Uncommon Velocity - Rozz Williams

Download do Album


Desafio


Litanie a Satana - Il Giardino Violetto

Quem escreveu Les Litanies de Satan? Coloca a resposta na caixa de comentários e desbloqueia o próximo Xochicuicatl.

8 comentários:

  1. Para os esquecidos, este foi o último Xochicuicatl:

    http://xibalbamannequins.blogspot.com/2010/03/xochicuicatl_05.html

    ResponderEliminar
  2. Insert coin here: Charles Baudelaire

    ResponderEliminar
  3. Ganhaste um grande prémio!, o próximo post Xochicuicatl. Vais ter 20 na escolhinha do gótico (como se tivesse em posição de ser teu professor ;p ), e a seguir é emprego garantido.

    Este poema vem em Les Fleurs du Mal, uma obra essencial para quem quer compreender o simbolismo (na minha opinião). Ele faz (mas já não me lembro muito bem disto, sinceramente) uma comparação entre Satã e Hermes Trimegestus, e inventa uma quase-gnose pelo tédio - lembra o Pessoa ehe. Este poema em si tem Satã como o piedoso, porque foi injustiçado e por isso tem sobre sua alçada todos os que sofrem de injustiça e discriminação, que acolhe.

    ResponderEliminar
  4. Au Lecteur

    La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
    Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
    Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
    Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.


    Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
    Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
    Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
    Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.


    Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste
    Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
    Et le riche métal de notre volonté
    Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.


    C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent!
    Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
    Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas,
    Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.


    Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
    Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin,
    Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
    Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.


    Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d'helminthes,
    Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons,
    Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
    Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.


    Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie,
    N'ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
    Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
    C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.


    Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
    Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
    Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
    Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,


    II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
    Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris,
    Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
    Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde;


    C'est l'Ennui! L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire,
    II rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
    Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
    — Hypocrite lecteur, — mon semblable, — mon frère!


    — Charles Baudelaire




    To the Reader


    Folly, error, sin, avarice
    Occupy our minds and labor our bodies,
    And we feed our pleasant remorse
    As beggars nourish their vermin.


    Our sins are obstinate, our repentance is faint;
    We exact a high price for our confessions,
    And we gaily return to the miry path,
    Believing that base tears wash away all our stains.


    On the pillow of evil Satan, Trismegist,
    Incessantly lulls our enchanted minds,
    And the noble metal of our will
    Is wholly vaporized by this wise alchemist.


    The Devil holds the strings which move us!
    In repugnant things we discover charms;
    Every day we descend a step further toward Hell,
    Without horror, through gloom that stinks.


    Like a penniless rake who with kisses and bites
    Tortures the breast of an old prostitute,
    We steal as we pass by a clandestine pleasure
    That we squeeze very hard like a dried up orange.


    Serried, swarming, like a million maggots,
    A legion of Demons carouses in our brains,
    And when we breathe, Death, that unseen river,
    Descends into our lungs with muffled wails.


    If rape, poison, daggers, arson
    Have not yet embroidered with their pleasing designs
    The banal canvas of our pitiable lives,
    It is because our souls have not enough boldness.


    But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitch hounds,
    The apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents,
    The yelping, howling, growling, crawling monsters,
    In the filthy menagerie of our vices,


    There is one more ugly, more wicked, more filthy!
    Although he makes neither great gestures nor great cries,
    He would willingly make of the earth a shambles
    And, in a yawn, swallow the world;


    He is Ennui! — His eye watery as though with tears,
    He dreams of scaffolds as he smokes his hookah pipe.
    You know him reader, that refined monster,
    — Hypocritish reader, — my fellow, — my brother!


    William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil

    ResponderEliminar