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poetry

not even Baudelaire

   

 

 

I’m sitting with “The Flowers of Evil”-

a small reading-lamp the only light in an

otherwise dark room.

Back from a jog, you silently appear

hip-cocked in the doorway,

dirty blonde shook forward,

framing Lopez lips

in an incredible ensemble

of white cotton panties

and gym socks.

 

I tilt the shade like a spotlight

thinking maybe a little bump & grind,

instead you drop to your knees –

your reality more intense than

one could possibly write –

ever so lewdly crawls across the Persian rug,

gives even the goldfish

gooseflesh and a hard-on.

No one could make you up,

not even Baudelaire.

3 replies on “not even Baudelaire”

Craig,

Beware of Baudelaire; he was a rogue.

To quote him: “Our sins are stubborn; our repentance, faint.
We take a handsome price for our confession,
Happy once more to wallow in transgression,
Thinking vile tears will cleanse us of all taint.”

and his buddy Rimbaud said:

” But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.
Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor
O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!”

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HI Craig

The poem definitely keeps one engaged from the reading of Beaudelaire to the power of that woman. As always, your crafting of the poem is finely done with wonderful detail and a well voiced narrative. Thanks for sharing.

Much enjoyed,
Wendy

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