I fell in love with good people.
At least that’s what I thought,
once upon a carefully notched timeline.
But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe the people I fell in love with were
mediocre flotsam cast out by rolling waves which
crashed onto shores stained with crude
thoughts and behaviours which
led them to pretend a love they
apparently showed was real and deep
and kindly enough to rotting boot, when in
fact it was just too damn shallow to be of use.
And maybe the reality as is was something else:
so many of these people were simply there to hurt:
me, them and others rather similarly, in fact
(no reason why I should be particularly
hateful … nor deserving of any unusual hurt); and so
really what’s happened is they’ve fucked us all up:
these others, these them and this me all along.
And now there’s nothing to be
done but – zombie-like –
live in a misery of fairly grandiose proportions.
There is, in fact,
indisputably, no fucking bloody stupid nor
nicely drawn nor re-engineered
alternative to being properly, utterly and
completely fucked up by all the people we were and all
the people we’ll fail to be.
(So how could I possibly get to the age of 53 will all those illusions
hanging intact – like awful millstone – round my neck?
What idiot-stone – really – am I made of,
What idiot-stone, indeed, shall carve the motto of my tomb?)