BAUDELAIRE

The days fall behind
as the dusk weighs
on my ebony shadows
from Jeanne Duval
transfixed by my body
into melody anguish
and melancholy speech
in the language of attraction
as an almost sculpted sun
upsets us over Paris
for no reason
yet our lower intestine burns
us out of mutual starvation
except from dead ends
of perpetual second guessing
where to get a cheap meal
in the Latin Quarter
with no satisfaction
into the perpetual loneliness
of the black cat
from the window sill
full of dying flowers
and lost hours of distraction.