WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) ENGLISH POET, PAINTER AND PRINTMAKER.

GUSTAV ADOLF MOSSA (1883- 1971) FRENCH SYMBOLIST PAINTER BORN IN NICE.

EDVARD MUNCH (1863- 1944)  NORWEGIAN SYMBOLIST PAINTER

THE SUN FALLS DOWN OVER
HER VEST
AND CLOTHES BRIGHT HER
WOUNDED BREAST.
THE DRAGON SIPS HER 
BREATH AND SCOWLS.
IT DOESN'T TASTE
OF FAULTLESS SOULS.
HE STANDS WITH PRIDE AND
ANGER ROSE
HIS REDDENED HANDS SEARCHING 
SO CLOSE,
STEALING LIFE AND DESTINY
FROM SHATTERED LIPS
IN AGONY.
THE SKY GROWS DARK
AND TOILS IN SOMBRE
THE LIGHT HAS GONE,
RIPPED, TORN ASUNDER.
IT'S TIME TO LEAVE THE MIRTH
BEHIND.
THE EYE OF GOD IS ALWAYS
BLIND.





.

THE WORLD IS FULL OF FOOLISH
MEN
SHE GRINS AND MURDERS
ALL OF THEM.
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT." 
THE GODS ASSURE HER
"THEY HAVE TO STRUGGLE, WORK 
AND SUFFER.
IF ALL OF THEM DYE BY YOUR WILL,
THE WORLD, WILL GO ON 
SPINNING STILL?"

SHE SPINS AROUND
WHIRLPOOL OF LUST
THE MUSIC THROBS
DEEP IN HER HEART.
DEATH IS HER SUITOR
FOR THE NIGHT.

THE BATTLE WON, THE HONOUR
LOST
THE PLEASURE GONE IN NIGHTS 
OF FROST.
HE STOPS TO REST, HIS HEAD
BENT DOWN
THE BLOOD OF SOLDIERS
STAINS HIS GOWN.
THE EVIL GOAT, EYES FIXED ON HIM,
ATTEMPS TO EMBRACE HIS
BURNING SKIN,
AND IN THE MIDST OF ALL HIS PAIN
BLACK TEARS OF ANGUISH
POUR LIKE RAIN.

WHITE LOVING FINGERS...SUCH
DELIGHT!
CARESS HIS BROW. AND DEEP
INSIDE
HE KNOWS THAT NOW THERE'S
NO RETURN,
STRONG PASSIONS THROBBING 
IN HIS VEINS.
SWEET KISS THAT THRUSTS HIM 
DOWN TO HELL.
A POIGNANT TONGUE, A SHARP DARK 
SPELL.
AND IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS BLISS
HE LOSES  ALL FOR SUCH
A KISS.

.

HIGH IN THE CROSS
PRAYING FOR GOD TO UNLEASH
THEIR SOULS
TRAPPED IN THE TURMOIL
OF THE WORLD.
DARKENED PATH OF RESURRECTION,
LOST THE SECRETS OF REDEMPTION
LEFT TO FIGURE FOR
THEMSELVES
IF THIS IS PARADISE
OR HELL.

THE TASTE OF BLOOD
EXCITES MY SENSES
I'M OVERWHELMED
BY LUST PRETENCES.
IN ALL MY LIFE
OF LONELY SEARCHINGS
I'VE NEVER FOUND
A PLACE FOR RESTING.
FOR EVERMORE
I'M BOUND TO THIRST
FOR BLUEISH VEINS
AND WILD OUTBURSTS
OF UNCONTROLABLE DESIRE
TO SET MY RESTLESS SOUL
ON FIRE.

.

PAIN LIKE ROSES
HAS THORNS,
LIKE ORCHIDS
SHARP PERFUME, 
LIKE FOXGLOVE THREADS,
OF POISON DELIRIUM.
I HAVE IN MY CHEST
SOME BLOODROOT AND HEMLOCK
BECAUSE YOUR DISDAIN
IS KILLING MY LONGING.
I'M BLEEDING PROFUSELY,
MY BREAST CAN'T REFRAIN
THE SORROW, THE PAIN
IN BLOOM IN MY HEART.
I TRY NOT TO BLAME....
IT'S HURTING THE SAME...
I'M FALLING APPART.















POEMS BY  ELISA de CORRAL