How did I let the poet in me die so easily?
Was she stolen in Ecstasy's warm, but lying embrace?
Was she the ash that fell from so many caustic cigarettes?
Did I unroll her, as I unrolled my body on the yoga mat,
trying not to get much more fat, trying not to let
my body get much more old
Was she unfurled in the lightless hours of bitterness and regret?
Did she fall as so many dried and desiccated tears?
Did she peel away, like all these fucking years?
I missed her!
I missed the sweet embrace of all those hours, staring at blank bits of paper,
at computer screens, my eyes shredded by white light, and every word,
every line reading like so much awful shite... the pain of tearing these words
through the ragged hole in my soul
And then the black dog breaking into my room,
intoning in his doom laden voice, that even though I had no choice,
there never was and never will be any fucking point!
I missed her! I missed the nights tumbling into mornings, the amphetamine rush
of her pouring through me, suddenly, like a surprise orgasm, like the dream
of a perfect death, an imperfect, lucent coloured birth.
I missed being humbled, being humiliated
by the utter smallness of my Self, by my unwillingness to be
the conduit of something so much greater than me.
So I'm in tears now, as she caresses me, whispers hotly in my ear,
this is how it used to be; and this is how it will be, from now
and ever on... stroking me with hieroglyphs that pour down from the heavens,
like the icy rain that courses through even the narrowest of veins,
showing me, with cutting clarity, that is was not she who showed disdain,
but that it was me who turned my back and walked away... and that always
she was waiting, just around the corner, crying out my name
whenever I walked past; in the bitter evening
cold, dark-eyed and completely unseeing!
