I came like Water, and like Wind I go.
The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
appreciation for a bowl of porridge comes with time.
but first, you will learn to cherish all the little stories
of your childhood that your parents unintentionally
embarrassed you in front of every new love of your
unfinished life.
i am nothing but a link
in the reproduction chain,
and still a snob reading elegy
written in a country churchyard,
wondering if that weary reign
is ever going to fade.
and, if we toss ambitions aside,
you dare ask why, there is always
that somewhat awkward silence
engraved in the granite.
i am still the first draft of a person,
not exactly a catch, a puny little
jest rather than a strong punchline.
sadly, my reflection in the mirror
cannot understand this, and it scares
me more and more with the sight
of this greying imitation of dignity.
and i might actually be okay with it,
if it were not for this tiny, insignificant
detail: the poet suddenly wanted to get
rid of me.
the first shadow was cast by the doctor
of the church. then there was a bishop
and two dominicans opposing the sceptical
canon episcopi. but no one was as influential
as the german churchman with his hammer.
except maybe for a certain northern king.
and even now, when i see faces staring at me
from the walls and fences of holy buildings,
i am not sure if they are portraits of saints
or their innocent victims.
there are two corpses resting
on my kitchen window sill.
far apart, the left one belongs
to the housefly, the right one
to the giant house spider.
they have been dead for weeks,
but for some reason, i can not
bring myself to remove them.
to say that it is because they
remind me of the fragility
of life would be the obvious
truism. and it is not the striking
insignificance of their deaths
or all the social metaphors
they could embody. not even
the aesthetics of the symmetry
of their position. it is the sheer
fact that i still do not know
why.
it is not what she says,
it is how she says it.
it is not what he hears,
it is how he listens to it.
and whether their eyes
follow the mirage.
cutting my lips with the sharp edges
of the skin of a piece of honey melon
somehow escapes my attention as,
while staring at cathleen and colleen’s faces,
i wonder if i would rather slightly smile
or slightly frown, or maybe just play
with a hand grenade at the south-east
entrance to central park, in front
of the bronze statue.
you said i was just like you,
only smarter. but believe me,
i am not smarter. i am just
older.
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.
hidden pilcrow 