Torn between the four-volume Forcellini and Van Reed’s ‘Waei Shōwa,’
the casual libertine relishes the metre of ‘Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō’
while not shying away from the formative influence of ‘Urotsukidōji.’
But while he indulges in Roman literotica and the occasional hentai,
there is one guilty pleasure he would never admit—seeking the longest
sentence in ‘Der Tod des Vergil.’
Perhaps it was a fragment of the Berlin Wall embedded in an acrylic block,
gathering dust on a shelf next to the certificate of authenticity,
or the faded silhouette of Gary Cooper on the iconic Solidarity election poster
in a glass case on the wall of the study, or some other memorabilia from the era
that, at a glance, brought to mind the end of history—that sarcastic mistress,
whose abrupt return from what turned out to be nothing but a short vacation,
caused the last man’s every reading to become an exercise in caution.
But the crisis of authority met the advent of the algorithm, giving birth to a bastard
cooking up a brand new paradise based on the good old blueprints—an ant colony,
only this time from a bio-lab test tube, augmented by neural implants.
Sitting by the window, in the last rays of evening light, I read
the words of one man asking another again and again how long
he will delay to be wise.
The question, though asked in the second person singular,
could not possibly have been addressed to me, for I am a poet,
and we all know the ‘Apology.’
So who is that individual our sage is so insistently enquiring?
Would it be the normal London plumber plotting some infernal
hole among the roofs?
Whoever he is, I hope he is not yawning as hard, though of course
one can always blame the weather, for today it’s raining cats and dogs,
and that always puts me to sleep.
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.
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