Landslide [poem]
Yes, darling,
I’d love to play with you —
but not the games you seem to favour,
which mostly involve
a crudely parodied sideshow
of a woefully widespread
Black Widow spider.
Yes, darling,
I’d love to have sex with you —
but not if you use it, my mind to control,
ruthlessly wrapping
your clitoris round my neck
like a succulent scarf
with a scream for a soul.
Yes, darling,
I’d love to converse with you —
but not if you keep changing the handle,
or incessantly
bringing it back to yourself,
like a frayed frisky fly
on a waxed-out candle.
Yes, darling,
I’d love to write poems with you —
but not if they stand in the way of my rhymes
which are really my dreams —
unchained traces of gilded
chronicles surfing on briefly
barefaced borrowed time.
Yes, darling,
I’d love to unmarry you —
but not in a whirlwind of bellicose blows
and warpainted wickets
which litter the rock-strewn wake
of the mud-stained soil
of our ragged old road.
Oh, darling!
where did it all go?
No buts anymore; just our faces and eyes —
our mouths saying words
which will pave all-new paths
so that we can depart
with our hearts the more wise.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 