Love is blind, or so they say,
and though they picture a blindfolded Cupid,
none seems more blind than the motherly one
—when she shrugs off her grown-up son’s
beating of his younger sister as nothing
but an innocent sibling quarrel.
Maybe that would have been true
when they were toddlers and one hit the other
with a plastic shovel while playing in the sandbox,
but not now, when he is a six-foot giant
bullying her because of her love
for another woman.
Whether it is a touchscreen, a typewriter, or a vintage fountain pen, alone
is a five-letter word. But I’ve found that focussing on the writing implements
helps forget about that disturbing detail.
To think, a measly five characters could encompass my entire state of being.
Frankly, I’d rather be single. At least then I would attract condemnation,
not pity.
If a twopenny game is truly what it is, why do we cling to life so tightly,
and what compels us to bring yet more players? Could it be nature’s fault
for imprinting in us this insatiable thirst? Even so, greed is our own breed,
nurtured over millennia among the volumes of sonnets that fill the shelves
of the slaughterhouse.
I miss the comfort of ‘not yet,’ when everything was a possibility
that could easily become irrelevant if only shouting ‘hold your horses!’
to the offspring of impatience and thirst proved to be anything
but a fool’s errand. But nature knows no respect, and there was no moé
that could save me from what I had left behind in the muddy trenches.
Now the late life of mine is but a mere hindrance, leaving a bitter aftertaste
that occasionally soils my otaku path to the Shangri-la of demise.
If there were a healing cream for the soul,
like the one I use for eczema, perhaps I could stop scratching the itch
after you left (you weren’t expecting anything more, like pain, let alone despair, were you?).
Oh well, the occasional rom-com or dramedy will do instead, I guess.
After all, sometimes it takes more courage to step back from life
than to cling to the roles it imposes.
How kind of me to drop a tenner into the battered polystyrene cup
of that poor bloke sleeping on the pavement outside the bank!
Don’t believe me? Check out my last tweet.
How kind of me to help the new guy at work,
even though he is so incompetent that he would be better off doing something else,
but he never listens to me on the latter!
How kind of me to always put so much thought into the presents
I give my relatives and friends! Like last Christmas, when I gave my older sister
‘The Essential Atkins for Life Kit.’
And speaking of life-enhancing writing, isn’t it kind of me
to share my life experience,
and all for free?
Sorry, mate, but it’s not—it’s all condescending.
‘Your welcome—my pleasure’ was my running pun for a long time,
until I learnt that the phrase was actually ‘you’re welcome.’
Who would have thought that acquiring knowledge could ruin
a perfectly fine equivoque? At least now, I know that right from the start,
they weren’t hinting at not wearing out my welcome.
My mistress, the soul, has never transcended
her affair with my ever-decaying soma,
like an old lady to the bitter end watering flowers
on her abusive husband’s grave. And yet, as I learn
old man tricks—an afternoon game of dominoes
and speaking fluent pigeon—and can curb my urges,
she still insists on one more shot at l’amour vrai.
Perhaps a tad of The Swan of Avon will do the trick.
After all, nothing soothes the soul like a verse
after a day of debauchery.
Washing pills down with herbal tea,
like an evil bailiff, I contemplate the worth
of words born within the context
of a universe in slippers and flannels.
There is nothing wrong with seeking
restitution, but where does the respect
for war come from—just because it puts
every man on trial? So does primal solitude.
And I can understand the good intentions
behind the wish for a simple life in a cabin,
but even when faced with a point of no return,
no one likes to be petted, including nature.
hidden pilcrow 