Have tales for people.
The thighs and hips and sultry curves
Of my far-fetched fragile recall and the
Curt, hurtful sentences littered
With remnants of forsaken restraint are
Nothing more than a jumbled mass
Of remembrance and prediction.
This is the fog of one looking through
Grated eye and withered synapse.
She sits, framing the room, providing
A preconditioned reproductive urge
To this basic living. I glance upon her side,
Upon her beautiful smooth flank,
The gentle barrier that
Has barred the way
To emotional security.
She hides without saying,
You are too uptight and you are too welcoming
And you are too tolerant of aggression.
A horrific blankness hides any flaming passion
That resides within. This is smokescreen
And the light of estranging youth blinds
Into the future months.
Who is she?
A mis-titled prostitute? A wild cathedral?
An injured spider, presumed dead,
Rising to spin a web,
To catch the falling world?
I need a numerical confirmation, a binary appraisal or something.
I love all that flows.
I ask the question that will
Beyond all reason and doubt
Justify my bruised dignity:
Do you love me?
(I my must be careful with my dignity.
It is my only one, and you don’t
Get replacements these days.)
The deafening nothing of a repeated
And emphasised and repeated
Is sitting in my lungs, squatting. All my roles,
The poet and the painter and the sculptor,
Have begun to shift and very soon
Will begin to drift away
Into hyperextensible ideas,
A lie is a lie is a lie, and all that.
My words are a sure catalyst for fury and I am keeping
One eye on her hyperactivity. I have ducked
Inside that oft-used noun apology
And am wielding it above my head like an axe.
There is no real danger of course because
Acceptance is a strange wedding
Of thinking and doing and being,
Like trying to swallow a pill
Whilst lying on your stomach.
Lying on my stomach, I urge myself,
To try my vocal chords out:
Once you hear the emotion seep down
From your brain into your throat,
I tell myself
You won’t be able to stop.
I look at her across the room, and find that
The mirror into which she looks does not
Hang upon the wall but upon notions of
Reflection and progression
And so I say through cracked lips
And over earnest tongue,
with absolute sincerity and hopeless truth,
I always knew this would happen.