‘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.
How long does it take to live fifty years?
Longer than the blink of an eye, but not as long as you might expect,
sounds about right. Then come all the accretions that stick like a crust
until you can’t tell them apart from your own skin. And when one day
you no longer cry over the shape of your heart, all that’s left is regret
that she threw away your perfectly good wellies, along with the name
you had traded for all the wrong reasons.
Could one nonsensical question plus one nonsensical answer
equal one heck of a clever retort?
If someone asked whether the universe would descend into chaos
if one plus one equals two were disproved
and someone else, in response, suggested adding a litre of water
to a litre of sand, pairing rabbits, or changing the radix,
then perhaps it could—as an exercise in rhetoric, not the result
of an abundance of free time and unlimited access to the net.
It must have been an oversight when he said: harm no others.
Didn’t he rather mean: harm no one? But it makes sense
when you think about it, because it gives us back the freedom
that the gods we created have robbed us of.
What we do with it, though, is a whole other story.
Someone once said that having ideals is no great feat;
the real feat is, in the name of truly great ideals, not to falsify minute details.
I can see the ghosts lurking behind the words as I write them—their eyes
fixed on the page, following the rasp of the worn nib of a fountain pen
that meticulously records all the petty grievances of a little man at odds
with a broken heart I’m not yet ready to give up on. Absolution, after all,
begins with oneself.
What does it mean to love, let alone to love well?
And whom—or what, for that matter?
After all, we say love countless times every day:
I love a good laugh now and then;
I love my steak rare;
I love Friday nights out with my buddies;
I love travelling;
I love your haircut;
I love those floral twist-back tops she wears;
I love that song;
I love the latest book by [author of your choice here];
I love my [pet or person of your choice here];
I love myself;
I love you.
Honestly, it’s as confusing as dying
over everything in life.
There is no purpose to life—we are born to die, and that’s it.
Everything in between is a flaccid time-filler. And yet we flex
our muscles and strike dignified poses, as if we were better
than seagulls fighting over a box of chips with chippy sauce
dumped on the pavement by bar-goers on their way home
after a Friday night out, when in fact, even our cries are as loud
and desperate—except theirs say that there is no purpose to life
but life itself.
hidden pilcrow 