In Search of Lost Time

In Search of Lost Time

“The literary prototype…
is the ‘la regarder domir’
passage from Proust’s
novel. Marcel snuggles
up to the sleeping
Albertine and…”
—Michael Maar, “Lilith,”
Speak, Nabokov

How gauche of me—how rude & risqué.
But what can I say—it’s only the truth.
Like Humbert in Lolita—I got off, my dear.
Like that scene when she’s eating an apple,
Bouncing there on his knee so sensually.

It was the same way with Marcel Proust—
Except it was cute Albert—not Albertine…
In bed next to his sleeping young lover…
So handsome in Search of Lost Time.
Asleep in his kimono next to Proust.

Involuntary memory works that way.
At least it happened that way with me.
He was asleep in bed and so was I…
After I made love to him the usual way.
Drifting off—tasting his young manhood.

I wasn’t in search of lost time, my dear—
It was in search of me & it found me.
What could be more excruciating than an
Exquisitely long nocturnal emission?
Adolescents have them all the time.

But surely not grown-up adults anymore—
Calm, mature, sophisticated fags like me?
And yet there I was squirting away!!!
Waking up in the middle of a wetdream—
A long nice creamy spastic one too!!!

What could I say, what could I do?
Other than feel embarrassed & amazed?
I couldn’t help it—coming next to him,
My involuntary memory triggered by love.
His tangy taste triggering my ejaculation!!!

It certainly wasn’t tea & marmalade, dear.
Nor was it dipping some toast in a teacup.
It wasn’t a naughty toke or hashish either.
It was the taste of my own Albertine stud.
Something I craved & couldn’t do without.

Proust was absolutely telling the truth—
Even tho he disguised Albert as Albertine.
Vladimir Nabokov picked up on the trope,
Being a Russian exile lost there in Berlin…
Writing his novels The Enchanter & Lolita.

Involuntary memory has a mind of its own—
How to describe it in the life of a grown male?
Everyman goes thru it, this rite de passage.
Hormones transform every boy into a man,
Even most don’t write novels about it tho.

Call me homo, call me a cocksucker—
I’m used to being denigrated that way.
Like Proust with his early boyish intimations
As well as Gide & Genet, I’m definitely queer.
Don’t ask, don’t tell isn’t my motto tho.

Tart, piquant, shockingly cheesy, my dear.
Shamelessly smegma-esque & disgusting…
Pheromones wafting like male ode de colone
From arched armpits, bored and so hetero—
Sharing with me what ex-girlfriends know.

Put it all together in a penis potpourri—
I’ll be the first to admit & confess the truth.
I pout like Proust when I think of Albert,
I mope like Genet when Stilitano groans,
I swoon like Gide the Immoralist…

What else can I do, what else can I say?
Stick my head in an oven like Sylvia Plath?
Throw down my hair like poor Rapunzel?
Cruise Venice for Tadzio, flee to Capri?
I don’t have to—he’s already inside me…

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