“My mind is ruined with love; I back away,”
he says, deceitful to himself, and us,
that’s me, overhearing, retelling some bits.
Do you mean *by love? she asks, but he’s gone
into another illusion that’s opening
like a space; and has potential; and a boss
moving around everything for the good
of a most jumbled plan; so he doesn’t hear,
more fey than dumb, in basements of exclamation,
connecting parts of speech to his genitals.
“Why else are we erect if not to walk?”
he shouts, brandishing himself among his mates
who fall into themselves to be absent.
“Why else are we rigid if not for talk?”
Are you ruined by love? she asks again.
He does not understand. He stops. “No way,”
he cries, -- and strides on, as if he had yelled
“Make way” – “My love is quite intransigent
and has no need of others. It makes me weak.
To give it to someone else might infect
the whole community with my unease.
I yield affection. It would not help me.
I have too much fondness; and it prevents
but preserves me, such is the case,
from making myself vulnerable; or so I thought.
Yet it has snide affect; and I weaken.”
What do you *mean by *love? ask several,
near, touching him, concerned; and he withdraws.
-----
UNFRAMED GRAPHICS by Lawrence Upton
42 pages; A5 paperback; colour cover
Writers Forum 978 1 84254 277 4
wfuk.org.uk/blog
----
Lawrence Upton
Dept of Music
Goldsmiths, University of London
|