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Thursday, March 25, 2010

In the Pursuit of Decadence

we lay in the bed
of that old hotel room,
our skin rubbed sore
by the rough cotton sheets,
hot and blistering,
red, raw, and talking:

it was the price to pay
in the pursuit of decadence;
the ink was sloppy --
the words hasty --
we had written hungrily
in the diaries of our souls:

but passionately --
you had implored, and passion
never lies: at least we are
honest you reassured --
but what after the passion dies?
how do we live with the truth
of it then?

the truth that nothing
is permanent but for its time,
mere moments of making, or taking,
or to eradicate and re-make --
or to forsake -- but never
immortal in itself
although it may make immortal;
the mortality of time
is ever deceitful:

and you had said how
decadence is necessary;
the pulling power to make us
move against the truth
of finality; whether you are
a moth burning for the flame
or in it -- what's the difference? --
but a longevity of sense,

and I had quoted
Antoine de Saint Exupéry who supposedly
said that making men yearn
was the drive to make things, where
such illusions were very necessary
to push us to be involved
and to believe,
and you had been delighted
in that! -- how a little girl
came out of the woman --
to laugh and scrunch up
beside me,

but I still wondered
in yearning for you
what we had built in rainy
old Paris, and whether
we had built something
to last -- for passion
however beautiful is a shaky
foundation alone:

but you kissed me
making me lose one sense
to heighten the others;
and made me forget
my thoughts on such matters:
whether if decadence is sand,
to wonder what could be stone.

From the collection: "From Paris, In Love" (Turkish Vistas) >>

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