poetry

[Ar]ts of love

The question he posed wasn’t Shakespeare’s at all.

It wasn’t being or not being:

the master was quite wrong.

“To be or not to be” was a solitary question.

He didn’t want to live alone.

Alone wasn’t his thing any more.

He wanted to be an artist with muse he could

touch, and smother and love and

take with an abandon she’d abandon her everything

in order to acquire: and he wanted her to acquire

him; he wanted to be owned; he wanted that

person to own him and want the body

he now had, battered and bowed – but

desperate for her lips and her ears and her neck,

and her long thin ankles, and the eyes that danced,

and the romance in her mindful sex and

teasing fingers, and the ways she knew how to

make his brain tingle: all he needed, in fact,

was to see her face, and he was no longer

sure if the same was for her, but if she did

meet him again, he’d surely be hers.

 

And the question the master should

really have asked was:

“Are or not are – let’s do whatever together.”

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