I remembered it well
the rich mix of smoke, perfume, and garlic
one could almost taste the absinthe in the air.
Toulouse-Lautrec, was deemed acceptable
as we embraced his artistic vision
singing our Chason Realiste songs;
we are the people, the poor gaudy freaks
traipsing about with drink in hand
sliding stockings down
from thighs, spreading
dreams while delving headlong into
decadence and garish night life,
trying to escape banality .
Ah Henri, the prostitutes, and there
were many, Marie Charlet
your first. Even with your genetics
and anguished tirades burgeoning,
she loved you well.
Tremblement de terre, your creation
we too contrive when mocked
to become carefree and
and yet there is sympathy suffused,
a continuum of unarticulated
and variegated respite;
the allure of mouth watering treats
and trollops that take the woe-begotten
to stellar heights.
While we the hangers-on
raise glasses in salute
tonguing the inner sanctum of the Moulin Rouge
our astute imaginings savored while
craving even more of those
***** nights with ******* and bodies
exposed, ******* whetted blown upon.
Then too, our burrowed deep sensations might grind
out torch songs, even as the flames leap higher
to singe us all, we laugh and cry.
Curled flame we toast the unexplainable
creating an **** of molten light,
bodiesof heat brighter than stars.
Thus we become the false dawn,
stripping darkness from the midnight sky,
an explosion of all we are and have to give
in our life long pursuit of Celebration.