Twenty-Past Three (3 page)

It seems immutable

this struggle for life,

It also seems inevitable.

My capacity to be overwhelmed

often by this burden for existence

has inevitably created the standard

menu whose regular features are

disappointment and frustration.

There are precedents,

They are called memories,

Does memorable mean forgettable.

Why must you linger

like the stench of rotting flesh,

your screams now for recognition

too loud now to ignore.

Why must you pattern my

body with your mark that

diet or determination

cannot seem to revoke.

Why must I be reminded of my

passage to this day

When can I shut my eyes

and yield?

When can I open my door.

My last one….

I thought I was prepared.

Hours of self-analysis had

liberated me from the

drawer of self-deception.

I incorporated successive

corrections to this narrative.

Whilst not having a working title

for this nascent maturation,

I chose to take action and again

participate in a partnership for which

I was noticeably disinterested.

I have never known those of you

beyond my closest friend,

that I can confidently assert

gained my admiration.

This time, and the last time,

I was all but aware, if anything,

this union was scant consolation

for an accomplished self-reinvention.

I participated because

I couldn’t not participate.

However much my intuition

yelled caution,

it has generally been

summoned to submission

by the all too wearisome

demands of another.

I view this history with misgiving.

Certainly the influence

she could exert with her

lessons in self-sacrifice

in favour of the controlling male

set the standard by which

I subconsciously measured

a prospective union.

I concede these suitors fell

lamentably short

of the calibre of the person

I had imprisoned

and have since released.

I think what I did not

know how to do was be

Now I cannot imagine otherwise

Trees, variegated bark exposed.

A chestnut anointed my head

today as I strode in search of

the quotidian broadsheet.

Emirates airline has placed

an order for seventy A350 airplanes.

I’m ready.

A spider’s feast

separation.

New, wrinkled as a baby

visiting Visconti, Sylvia screams

“Who’d walk in this bleak place?”

If I had read the script

could I have rejected the part.

If I saw your face could I have

chosen another.

If my spirit was weaker could

my consumption of loss

been less barbaric.

MANY TEARS………

….yet

I live

And from there

I learned

And now I speak

Thus.

Not enough

and………………too late

An abrupt alert, sinister

in it’s delivery, a “sneak attack”

RIGHT NOW

I refuse to respond to your calling

OUTRAGE

Reprimand myself for any perceived weakness

RETROGRADE

I thought you could no longer reach me on this orlop

CHOKED

Have I really understood the inconsequential passing of time.

PARALISED

For the moment, perhaps.

Forgive me,

The rancour I endure silently

towards you continues unabated.

Though the occasional moments of

tolerance you express for those

around you softens as a welcome

mat at the doorway, they are but

false signs of hope, enigmatic almost,

and you are foreign once more.

Any thoughts of a reconciliation revolt,

confirmed by those boorish comments

surrounding that wedding, unattended.

incessant aggrandizement of bodily

weakness save imaginary illness, the

fastidiousness directed at elements

of conversation where silence is appropriate.

How spectacularly skillfully you eschew

all opportunities for redemption,

prerogatives one deems portentuous, lost.

Explicitly atone for all your crimes……….odious

The death knell.

In thinking of You

As a victim.