Glass of Absinthe and Cigarette

This is a poem about a man who is dead. Sodomy laws treated him like a second-class citizen. There were ripple effects. With the aid of stimulants, he spoke like a truthteller and hungered for touch. Even when repugnant, his disinhibition seemed godlike, and what came out of him ravished me. Alas, tolerance builds rapidly, and many lines must be insufflated to produce that all-is-right-in-the-world euphoria: “Feeling good. R U there. Come right now.” To keep myself sane, I fled, dear reader, but I’d give my kingdom to see myself in those dilated black eyes again.

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