December 4th, 2017

by Poetry

I’m not going to make this about love.

               heard all your warnings,
                              don’t want to be pigeonholed.

I know other things
               intimately; low-slung couches
cigarettes & spontaneous electrical surges.

                                             don’t worry
                              I know violence too & I’ll get to that –
               the feel of a heart leaving
                                             bruises
                                                            inside the chest.

I’m not going to write about love right now,
                                             no beauty either – not ready for it;

                              in a violent mood – would punch the wall
                                                                           tired of justifying bruised knuckles in office meetings – S…..
                                             never believes me
                              thinks I protest too much
               ready for a fight now – there’s killing in me yet;
would perform it beautifully but
               need a partner more beautiful than I,

I’m not looking to win
                                             just get my heart beating again
                                             give my shoulders a workout

do you see how hard I’m trying
               not to write about love just
                              a beating heart &

                                                            have I ever written about love – no
                              stop it
                                      isn’t about love
                                             about life & life
                                                            ain’t love

not making this about love – what
else is there?

                              what else is there?

                                             like my windscreen – the way it fogs
up on nights like these;  like my radio cuts out on potholes & decay – radio cuts out a lot these days;
                                       like braking hard or turning sharp to avoid small animals on the road;
                                       like putting my foot down when I shouldn’t
                         like taking the long way home

                                             look at me, not writing about love
                                             look at me, not inhabiting a dead tongue
                                             look at me, no mention of a blowjob anywhere

                              still find it fascinating when poets
                                             write about cunt; like
                              there’s any taboo left to cunt when wispy
               hairs become bracken, a mysterious fog,

               there’s more beauty now in the way
                              she creases her dress to sit
               than in her nudity & culture more alien
                              in fingertips than honey poets stumble
               to find in her thighs;

     I don’t feel ready to
          write about love again
     not after this

Dear Sir,

               I read with great interest to discover that you’ve gone mad.
I found it most amusing to picture you howling in the streets, a stray dog indeed!
I like to think about your body; pale; hairy; irish genetics & predispositions.
You must come and visit with us sometime; I long to here you perform your withdrawal symptoms in my hall.

                                                                           Regards,
                                                                                          Her.

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