I find it impossible to write you poetry;
dense, leaden, eyes like mine that strain
beneath the ghosts of love,
and are quick to snarl
or freeze in embarrassment.

I find it impossible to trace
the faultlines of your body running
towards the galaxies;
to grace the tectonic plates
of olive flesh – so many jokes
I made, and you snarled,
and fell in love with me;
or the me I made for you,
more right-wing than I am;

No, my love; I don’t think
children deserve to eat either

of course; nurses are cruel
and overpaid, and stalk the night-wards
with scowls, and leave me tied to the bed for a week
and joke that I am too lazy,
too miserable, to get out of bed;

Ah, S – toiling away at books on law;
I hate them, there is no beauty
in such manifestos –

Yes, my love; I think Thatcher
had some good qualities too –
no, I don’t want to drink tonight.

I find it impossible to write you poetry,
as you find it impossible
to nail me in one place long enough
to capture a selfie,
extended at arm’s length,
of us smiling at the same time.

S; I could churn
a thousand words,
ten thousand words,
a hundred thousand words,
if I thought, for a moment,
you’d get further than the first line,
or understand the mad metaphors –
that you’d see your body as my world,
that you’d see your mind as my prison,
that you’d see your soul as a fertile village
on the seashore,
awaiting the dragon-head ships
and the pregnancy of murder,
carried in memories by the bird’s wings.


This is something I don’t think I’m ready to talk about yet. I don’t think I know what it means.

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