Sunk in couch — just one
more song — he’s off to bed, you
linger on, no plans

ahead, another fave — it’s
4am; that’s Sunday gone.

ㅤㅤHe said,

“Maybe
you can be
someone more like me —

gently despising,
while brutally deriding
dinner party artfulness,
suburban banality.

People disappoint, with their
nonsensical fallacies.

Hiding behind these
tricks of the mind,
their logical deviations
reveal their daily consternation —
resistant to a closer examination.”

ㅤㅤI said,

“Maybe
you could be
kinder in what you see.

Maybe you’ll find
the slant of your mind
influences consequence,
creates distorted cognisance —

an intellectual deviance.”

ㅤㅤThen he smiles,
ㅤㅤso beguiling,

“Can’t you see?
Delusion is what amuses me.
Skewering their butterfly frailties,

I’m a Happy Misanthrope.”

He kicks off…

As a boy, he felt the weight of his heart
heavy in his hands. He worried on

ㅤㅤwhat to do,
ㅤㅤhow to hold
ㅤㅤthis load
of longing, hauling him down,

ㅤㅤdown,

ㅤㅤㅤㅤdown,

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤinto blue depths
ㅤㅤㅤㅤof unknowing.

The smile of a girl, gentle
rosebud bow, with a quiver
twinned the beating mass
ㅤㅤgrasped
ㅤㅤhard
outside
his chest.

He could not replace it then. What was
once whole, bled unstopped
through the splay
of quaking fingers.

Open hands. They held
so poor an offering;
bound to be
refused.

So he closed his fist, held tight the tear
as tears
ㅤㅤpooled

…

We’re front row at the
Apocalypse — lattes in
hand. See. Told you so.

When I look at the statistics,
I’m thankful — glad it hasn’t
touched me, not really — but then

there was that time on the train,
coming home from uni — he had
mirror sunglasses, stared
ㅤㅤstraight ahead
and a leather sheepskin jacket
he threw across both our laps

ㅤㅤ(I can smell it still,
ㅤㅤfrom a distance
ㅤㅤof more than
ㅤㅤthirty years)

I should have said something, but instead
I read my book, and thought
how strange it was his jacket
felt like fingers — then I looked

ㅤㅤand couldn’t see
ㅤㅤhis other hand —

yes, I should have…