hidden pilcrow

Right now, spiking become just another thing men do to women with relative impunity.

Gaby Hinsliff, opinion at the Guardian

it turns out i am a sexual predator. apparently,
i enjoy slipping drugs or extra shots of alcohol
into a glass that belongs to a woman in a pub
while her back is turned, and then taking her away
and raping her. and now i am even more vicious
and use a needle for spiking. and i would not
have been aware of this if it were not for the help
of the guardian’s feminist commentator, a woman.

now, to be clear about one thing: i do not make fun
of sex crime victims. i am aware that some men
do unacceptable things to women, that some men
require treatment or isolation from society, probably
both. it is certain that some men have to change
their behaviour and attitudes towards women.
but as you can see, some women should start studying
aristotle, a man.

when the water tastes like vinegar
and every sneeze is a suspicion
of plague, you look in horror
at your fancy liquid retina to see
if the doctor is coming, doctor
schnabel von rom.

i bet you do not know the town of saugerties,
with its lighthouse on the hudson river, opus 40,
and the legendary big pink. why would you?
it is just another town in upstate new york, usa.
but there is one interesting fact about the people
who live there. if all but a few decided to leave
the town, it would be the same void as the one
after all the victims of gun violence in the states
last year alone.

saying that if it were up to me,
smokers would be prosecuted
in the same way as attempted
murderers, i am not making
friends. but let’s get smoking
out of this equation for now,
and just for a moment, focus
on their astonishing sense
of entitlement.

i know, i am a bit old
school. i like cyndi lauper,
and jack lemmon and shirley maclaine
in the apartment. sometimes i cry
at films, never at funerals.
i do not have a car, or a driving licence,
for that matter. why would i if my whole life
is within walking distance?

standing in the darkness
of an empty bedroom,
i watch the october night
washing the last passers-by,
mocking their umbrellas
and hoods in the lifeless lights
of the office building across
the street. from time to time
i return to my secluded kitchen
where, between gnossiennes,
i cook pancakes, not quite sure
if for your longed-for arrival
or my departure.

i was a little blunt in my remarks this morning,
maybe even a bit too blunt. the thing is, when
someone hurts you under the mantle of love,
and you no longer have any hope, you lose
faith in love itself. it ceases to be something
real. the good news is that the wounds will
eventually heal. except you will never get
rid of the scars.

if you are following the distant shadow
of phaedrus or would like to take part
in the symposium, if you find delight
in the sonnets, wake up; there is no love.
maybe gays know something about it,
but even among them, it is probably
mostly lust. but in the straight world,
you are a sperm donor once or twice,
occasional muscles to move a wardrobe
across the room, and always an atm
made of flesh and bone, and naivety.
but once you are no longer required
for the former two, she will dump you
like an unpaired sock, unless you fit
into the upholstery of her new sofa,
as a chiwawa.

sometimes i wonder if you like me
writing about you, even if it is not
really you, and i am just as elusive.
i could be your upstairs neighbour,
annoying you with the creaking
of floorboards or a typewriter song.
you could be that cheeky redhead
playing guitar on the fire escape
balcony, humming what might just
become the lyrics of your first hit.
and when we bump into each other
at the front door of the building,
exchanging some casual greetings
and commenting on the weather,
sometimes i wonder if you like
me.