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April 20, 2018

Ah, but what a wonderful lie,

And what a marvel, this sleep cure, like death.

I don’t care for this day,

I don’t wish to live this day.


This love, that love, another,

None, neither, know of this love.

But the love is, was, real,

At one point, instantaneously.


Hence, it comes. I’ll step out,

To a world of noise and cares.

Where no one cares. Ah, the first step,

It’s hard? The first step on a stair.


But I feel muscles wither here,

Alone in this small room.

Today, work is due,

One day lost multiplies another.


Sigh: why can’t he see reality?

He’s rich off my suffering.

Silent, when alone, despite my wails:

I am alone, too alone, I am inept.


How to meet one, a mystery,

But, I met some, at some point.

A coffee in a café named ‘Bell Jar’,

A skinny table; a spilt drink.


You may well weep, friend,

For we don’t cry over spilt milk.

Otherwise we’re raped, so it goes,

A poor slave girl, she was.


I prefer my peasant girl,

She’s hard, northern European.

She dresses the part. Plain colours,

The colour of her flesh. A bore.


I erred. It was not she I wished to know,

There was another, name now forgot.

Image ever present: where is she now?

Is she still there? She’s moved on.


We all move on. Has she come?

I’d take her hand, if she came.

And as she came, in my arms ….

Pleasure, with only words …. Yes.


I’ll show you the world: yes,

I now know it better.

There was a time when this wasn’t so,

But from my room, I know all.


The vantage point of my room is high,

It scrapes skies, not quite, but I hide here.

Someone knocked upon my door,

Left no calling card. I hid ….


I hid, beneath my sheets,

In my pyjamas. I think of the peasant.

The girl peasant. Why did she speak of him,

To me? We were alone, driving.


And thus went another dream,

Another dreamed love.

She, parentless,

She, of midnight fancies.


He, of ruptures daily,

He, most crude, yellowed teeth.

And short, quite short, and strange,

She, quite tall, with no intentions.


I don’t contact her,

I always reached out.

Was always blighted,

Leave it to me, I’ll break again.


Doctor’s office literature, high brow,

Quite intellectual. You seem intellectual.

Yes. Quite smart indeed, in comfort shoes and all,

And I turn to see: an older man …. surprise.


I wish not to hear of flights of fancy,

With black men from elsewhere and such.

And with no attraction you went with him,

Gladly you went with him, to a life of ease.


Peasant girls, you see, search lives of ease,

Don’t confuse ease with misalignment:

They’re not whores as some believe,

They don’t seek any rich man, not a one.


And how do these men come to you?

On the street or by other means?

I’ve seen films, of romance and other,

Peasant girls, they’re always alone.


But, peasant girls sometimes break free,

Free of the fears that bind them.

Bind them to the land,

And, they go far, with suitcase aplenty.


But peasant girls, really, do not concern

Those of us of city sanctums.

So instead, we think of city girls

Who go, themselves, with suitcase aplenty.


These girls, with courageous hearts and souls,

Who travel well, who travel far.

Who travel alone, for this is how

We travel best …. Alone ….


In a stairwell: stained glass provides light,

Dim light: I tired of flailing my arms

To have electric light. People pass,

They go by, struggling up, easing down.


Beside me, a lift transports men

With no desire of exertion.

And (!), I recall a forgotten word:

Divine’, for divine is the sleep that is had.


And, I hear them downstairs,

They query as to the vagrant resting.

But (!), he is not resting (!), they exclaim,

He is writing, and here, it is begot.


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