Eating Invisible Pasts: For Eliot and Baudelaire

I stroke my cock
to the jagged rhythm
of the syllables,
their meaning smeared
to indecipherable loss.

I luxuriate in the
stagnant waters
of a nostalgia
for something
that never was.

Its bitterness
turned with age
to cloying aphrodisiac,
its depths to
languid quicksand.
The paralyzing
elixir of love.

Fixed in the contemplation
of a happier ending
to a story I wrote
in the madness
of longing.

If only.


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