(no subject)

[mlr]

Calling to see you is like visiting a cemetery: silence, wind in the grass, withered flowers. Flask of vinegar, bitter cynic, you have a sneer for every fashion, and an insult for each of your friends. No one's good enough; you even put me down, but that's fine; I can handle worse shit than that. Where do you get that high-and-mighty confidence? You're hardly a star or a model of beauty, and you're not so hot in bed. But lust drives me to make a pass, to feast on your bony body like a maggot on a carcass. There's something about you naked on the carpet: your cold disdain is a bracing aphrodisiac.                 --John Tranter, after Baudelaire

...from the Paris Review. It was a little challenge to identify which fleur du mal this was. I think it must be Je t'adore à l'égal de la voûte nocturne.