Thursday, September 11, 2014

Prick


Flasher at the fountain when we first met:
harbinger of folly if we’d chosen
thus to read his crude and clownish antics;
or we might have censored in the service

of a flawless narrative of budding
love, where sky is cloudless blue and flower
hides no slime of worm amongst its petals.
Quick to flee I turned; but you said “How dare he!”

All at once, in your reaction, you I knew
had sensed what I had read, gave comfort
that you would not let the prick be phallic
shadow darkening our sun. Too old, too wise

for clich├ęs, but alert to symbols
spiralling our selves through history, I saw
The Fool who followed me from one man
to the next, ad infinitum it would seem.

Somehow - we’ll call it intuition - you
could see it too; so there we were, unveiled,
the skins of past betrayals present thrust,
to dare our trust in synchronicity.

Lover now, through your eyes then that freshly
saw, I sheltered from this primal scene, and
watched it doomed in weak display to shift
advantage to its would-be victims.

After all the nightmare sweats, the rattling
doors and shattered glass, the rigid, stifling,
blind-eyed sex, it’s only (after all this
drama) flesh, so sad in its exposing.