I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

Anything that is too stupid to be spoken is sung.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

Anything too stupid to be spoken,” he asserted, “is sung.

I sung of chaos and eternal night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down the dark decent, and up to reascend...

Presently I somehow found myself singing. The words were mere nonsense- irresponsible babble...Humanity would have rejected it with scorn. Nature, everywhere singing in the same key, recognized and accepted it without a flicker of dissent.

el horrible clamor de los posesos
a coro
con el coro de los verdugos que claman justicia
a coro
con el coro de los repletos que gritan que tienen hambre
a coro
con los degolladores que gritan al asesino
a coro
con las letanías de los hombres de glóbulos negros
a coro
con los viejos cánticos de los viejos atiborrados de bofe
a coro
con los abominables coristas que cantan la abominable ópera siniestra
Sagrado Corazón de Jesús apiádate de nosotros

Only poetry or madness could do justice to the noises...

Such moments passed and the wasting fires of lust sprang up again. The verses passed from his lips and the inarticulate cries and the unspoken brutal words rushed forth from his brain to force a passage. His blood was in revolt. He wandered up and down the dark slimy streets peering into the gloom of lanes and doorways, listening eagerly for any sound. He moaned to himself like some baffled prowling beast. He wanted to sin with another of his kind, to force another being to sin with him and to exult with her in sin. He felt some dark presence moving irresistibly upon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself. Its murmur besieged his ears like the murmur of some multitude in sleep; its subtle streams penetrated his being. His hands clenched convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered the agony of its penetration. He stretched out his arms in the street to hold fast the frail swooning form that eluded him and incited him: and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat issued from his lips. It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal.

Hell is full of musical amateurs.

This is th' abyss. Behold wherein I lurk
The lazar-house my mind, wherein do work
The horrid charnel-priests, whose loathly song
Sickens my soul, and quells the spirit strong.

I am going to speak some reckless words, and I want you to listen recklessly.

I sang it as a gift to the audience, to the composer, to me. I sang it as a taunt to the Fates, too. I was weary of my fears as well as my desires, and so I sang it in simple defiance of all of it, even defying myself.

To The Warmongers

I'm back again from hell
With loathsome thoughts to sell;
secrets of death to tell;
And horrors from the abyss.

Young faces bleared with blood
sucked down into the mud,
You shall hear things like this,
Till the tormented slain

Crawl round and once again,
With limbs that twist awry
Moan out their brutish pain,
As the fighters pass them by.

For you our battles shine
With triumph half-divine;
And the glory of the dead
Kindles in each proud eye.

But a curse is on my head,
That shall not be unsaid,
And the wounds in my heart are red,
For I have watched them die.