I think we have Q hangovers going on
Whether you call it "romanticism" "Gothic" or "satanic" Isidore Ducasse ended the literary experiment with a summary of a century of achievements in gothic (romantic or satanist) literature. He lived a very short life, as if only to write what he did. A life the photographer Man Ray understated as enigmatic. It was satano-encrypted.
From Poesies:
"Disturbances, anxieties, depravities, death, exceptions in the physical or moral order, the spirit of negation, stupefactions, hallucinations served by the will, torments, destruction, reversals, tears, the insatiabilities, the enslavements, scoured imaginations, laborious novels, what is unexpected, what not to do, the biochemical the shit of a mysterious vulture which watches for the carrion of dead illusion, precocious and aborted experience, the obscurities with a bug shell, terrible monomania of pride, the inoculation of deep stupors, funeral orations, envies, betrayals, tyrannies, impiities, irritations, acrimonies, aggressive pranks, insanity, spleen, reasoned terror,the strange anxieties, which the reader would prefer not to feel, the grimaces, the neuroses, the bloody channels through which we make logic pass at bay, the exaggerations, the lack of sincerity, the saws, the platitudes, the somber, the lugubrious, childbirth worse than murder, passions, the clan of the crime writer, tragedies, odes, melodramas, extremes presented in perpetuity, reason whistled with impunity, the smells of the sissy, fading, frogs, octopus, sharks, desert simoon, all that is somnambulist, sleazy, nocturnal, sleeping pill, night owl, slimy, talking seal, equivocal, consumptive, spasmodic, aphrodisiac, anemic, one-eyed, hermaphrodite, bastard, albino , pederast, bearded woman,the drunken hours of taciturn discouragement, the fantasies, the Acrotés, the monsters, the demoralizing syllogisms, the garbage, whatever does not reflect like the child, the desolation, this intellectual mancenillier, the scented cankers, the thighs with camellias, the guilt of a writer who rolls down the slope of nothingness and despises himself with joyful cries, remorse, hypocrisies, vague perspectives that grind you in their imperceptible gears, serious spitting on sacred axioms, vermin and its insinuating tickles, insane prefaces, like those of Cromwell, the scented cankers, the thighs with camellias, the guilt of a writer who rolls down the slope of nothingness and despises himself with joyful cries, remorse, hypocrisy, vague perspectives that crush you in their imperceptible gears, the serious spitting on sacred axioms, the vermin and its insinuating tickles, the insane prefaces, like those of Cromwell, of Mthe scented cankers, the thighs with camellias, the guilt of a writer who rolls down the slope of nothingness and despises himself with joyful cries, remorse, hypocrisy, vague perspectives that crush you in their imperceptible gears, the serious spitting on sacred axioms, the vermin and its insinuating tickles, the insane prefaces, like those of Cromwell, of the island of Maupin and Dumas fils, the caducities, the impotences, the blasphemies, the suffocations, the suffocations, the rages, - in front of these filthy mass graves, which I blush to name, it is time to react finally against what shocks us and bends us so sovereignly."