13 November 2011


I am too old to be heartbroken
I should be a young sylph in white drapery, crumpled
One should think of pale mournful eroticism
With splintered heart evident in my fractured swan wings, unnaturally bent

Being old and heartbroken is snot and the tears under the chin
The crying is too self indulgent , I took pictures of myself this time
I should delete them, my puffy face with it’s before surgery look
They don’t remind me of you. Not that I want that, of course. Damn, tripped myself up.  Insert today’s preferred invective here.

I can’t summon up that energetic state of sobbing now
Blinking, biting lip, repeating to myself what I read in your words, the words themselves are dulled now, by repetition, by a shell, above all by not wanting to feel.
You didn’t actually say it made you sick to think of me, not in those exact words, you described how you were not sleeping, and when you did sleep, how you woke sweating and sick with guilt at the thought of meeting me again.
You did not mean that I made you sick but that was all I could see in your words.

We have stopped speaking before, I forget how many times
Actually,  I never counted, I could guess at four, it might be three or five
But, you never told me I made you sick before.  I always thought, the ups and downs are part of us
Always we knew it was not really final, the wire was never snipped, it remained inert between us until something or other made me pick it up again, set off a thrumming and hope that you would feel the reverberation

You never said I made you sick before

Last night I heard a miaou, and I opened the door to nothing
Sometimes, still, the former playmate of my departed cat still sits on the garden bench, but I suspect it is more for the peace and the sunlight and the absence of wind rather than the companionship of Seville's ghost

I wanted to make this time not final, I even pulled my punches when telling you that we would not talk again
I said you were selfish but it was human to prioritise one’s own peace of mind over another’s happiness
I did not comment on the size of your dick

You never said I made you sick before
ragged feral creature that I am, I keep on going back to that vomit pile of grief.

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