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SENTIMENTS FALSE

April 27, 2018

A dreary dull day in a sunny room,

Still sunny. Can’t make coffee.

Failed in my obligations,

That were to myself only.

 

Music, variety. I wake up to it,

White café; black uniformed waiter.

Here, we wear what we want,

Apart from the shirt or vest.

And, this is freedom, in a free land,

The staff of cafés drink water.

For they count every crushed bean,

It’s sure. Down the road, a school.

Briefly, for a matter of hours, it was hers,

But I was, shockingly, mistaken.

And now, I don’t hear from her,

The most shocking fact of all.

 

A one day romance …. if only it’d been two,

For a moment it had seemed better as one.

Now, our signals don’t cross,

Eons of sleep …. deep fatigue.

 

We refer to one day as failed,

But, I’ll win her with a poem, discreet.

As soon as I’m in a poetic humour,

This state is now far from me.

Right now, it’s a struggle, each line,

Right now, I don’t seduce with poetry.

O! For an age where poetry won hearts,

When will such an age be again.

In need of a new dark age ….

I live my own dark age, asleep.

Asleep through days, bright days,

Here is the weak poetry I expected.

Lost days, lost hours …. lost ages,

Pathetic (!), I cry. Illness, indeed.

Play it up to doctor. Chalk it up,

One more day of rest, just one.

I’ll call for my pièce de résistance,

It won’t come? My hand moves.

It pens nothing of note,

The ‘sick’, hearing from his kin.

How sick is he who has kin?

I seek no kin: I’ve none.

I’ve a notebook and pen,

With it, in it, I write bad poetry.

When will I sparkle, shine,

The receptionist, asthmatic:

I hear her breathing, in and out,

She (!), a horror: hypochondriac.

Now I’m free, but not of beguiling loss,

How is she? Do I care?

I don’t care; I still think,

He hasn’t his own key, nor she.

Why would she require it?

I returned mine without fuss or worry.

But, still friends despite it all?

Indeed (!), we cry merrily.

This lasts a day, maybe two,

Her suggestion. My refusal.

 

But, what to say today,

To the white haired cretin.

Always, a terrible task,

To think before his thoughtful gaze.

 

I think. I speak of lost days,

Days are only well or poorly passed’.

I lost a day. Don’t give me semantics,

I’m glad, at least, that I sneeze audibly.

For men sneeze audibly,

Women, waifs, sneeze like sonnets.

I bless them, with god’s hand,

They smile and thank me.

Children play their games,

In work places, they play,

We have, all, lost all joy.

Games do not amuse, no more,

For now we think hard.

Home loans, rental agreements, the street,

We harass the underage,

The underage have no defence.

Not yet. This comes later,

We never mean to hurt the underage.

For we were all underage,

In a lost time ….

 

My lost day,

Don’t go to bed.

Okay. Arise,

But arise we must.

 

Father’. Father to small girl,

We smile, for he is a father.

Small girl passes holidays here,

Where father works.

Father owns this place,

Or at least he rents it.

Running a business,

Where small children do not belong.

Small children grow to harass,

To be harassed, and to go with the harasser.

And, he leads one far astray,

Far enough to make phones necessary.

 

Her bike is old,

Motored and all.

She wheels it, in full conversation,

She appears embittered.

 

They note my absence of weeks,

An absence of months meant little.

And did not deserve mention,

I am undeserving of mention.

I was too weak to be present,

Those months, let alone days, lost.

To she with no key,

Who complained the lack of key.

But, you’re never here!’

It all makes little difference.

She needed a key. I had none,

A legitimate claim.

 

And then, one day, she left,

Without a note of goodbye.

Without a word. And, I’m pleased,

I never was one for sentiments false.

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