poetry, trails of thought

“… when a life AIN’T a love story …”

There’s plenty been written about life and love,

but how about we borrow from the Spanish

original, castellano I mean, and we must be precise,

the idea of desamor: when love disappears.  In the

original mother tongue, it’s a falling out.  But in

direct and

incorrect translation, I realise we have an opportunity

to devise a new concept, like I said, of a special kind of

non-love: or perhaps better termed, unlove.

And all this talk of love when love doesn’t exist:

it ain’t healthy at all to tell the truth, after all.

So from now on I’ll sing about the birds and the

bees dying-off, and pretend that I believe in love

when such love really

ain’t a story I ever did know; for the only story they

taught me with the example of their arrogances was

how they knew so much better than the instincts which

drove me; for my instincts were there for a reason:

I know …

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