Window-shopping on Sunday afternoon was like adjectives attached to a noun when you say,
“This is beautiful,” so I could respond, “Nonsense, you are beautiful; this is just expensive.”
Then you hummed Come Away with Me, but the last time I touched your toes, they were cold,
and the bus left empty as you never wrote me that song. Only the rain has never let me down.
I know we always assume that parental love is a given,
but have you ever wondered what it would be like to be
the reason your parents have been at each other’s throats
for as long as you can remember, just because the distance
between their wedding anniversary and your birthday
is oddly close? Personally, I feel like I would rather never
have been born than bear such a burden, but it so happened
that I was, and trust me, it rips every bit of light out of you,
to the point that you lock yourself in a room with books
read by street light, standing behind a curtain. This is how
madmen and poets are born.
If you turn to big names like Shakespeare, da Vinci, or, Godwin’s law notwithstanding,
Hitler—the ultimate evil—to define a point of reference from which to move the absolute
blandness underlying our tedious yet convenient inadequacy, there is a risk of throwing
yourself at Newton’s flaming laser sword of a sort. But even if you abandon the trenches
to be content with the contemplation of the Bavarian gentians, your obliging neighbour
will get his hands on you eventually.
My dentist told me that I grind my teeth while sleeping,
and I am not entirely sure if I should be upset or relieved.
I know my endless craving for affection has been tiring
for quite some time now, and if you ask me if I am dead
inside, then I may well be, but that one random remark
could make all the difference. You see, I thought I had
to grit my teeth to keep from giving her the satisfaction.
It turned out that, while she enjoys the Riviera, the one
who gives a damn is the quiet man with a handpiece.
There was a time when I thought that there was a real possibility that life could be an act
of intentional cruelty, but now all I can say is that I no longer believe in the whole idea
of intentionality.
Taking a flight to New York—does that not sound great? Yeah,
but no thanks; I would rather not. Reality never matches a dream
anyway, and it was not even my dream in the first place.
Also, departures at Heathrow Airport, unlike the arrivals gate,
are not all about love, although I am sure Hugh Grant’s voice
would sugar something up if you asked. But if I ever do fly there,
it better be with you. I am sure you will find some room
in your baggage for a pocket book of poetry
and an urn.
As the big words settle at the bottom of Crawford Lake, I wonder
if that sediment might one day do more than just spoil the flavour
of the hazelnuts my distant heir will be snacking on while reading
tracks on a pack hunt.
If I had died captivated by the empty house of the stare,
where would my feathers have fallen? I remember that,
while calling me names and laughing, the other habitués
of labyrinthine school corridors were just as oblivious.
Forty years later, I barely recognise the nameless faces
staring back at me from the old photographs, but I know
that sedentary birds hold on just as desperately.
T. S. Eliot in translation, although no longer necessary—I mean, the translation, not the poet,
or so I guess—makes me think of unredeemable time. I always thought there must be a reason
for your ever-growing reluctance to touch, just like there must be a reason for my tinnitus.
After all, a correct diagnosis is essential to finding a cure. It turned out that there is no remedy
for lies.
hidden pilcrow 