Bag Man No More! [poem]
I used to be the kind of guy
who said to lovely ladies
Yes, my dear, I’ll carry your bag
(the implication being:
size no object
any weight will do)
stick it on my broadly back
anything for you.
Being an ardent kind of knight
I thought that it was only right
to take that load of ancient rubbish
in my stride (no matter how
ridiculously wide) without complaint
but smiling coolly (stoically)
gritting teeth heroically
like a beast of burden
I would cart that load
down every little road
(although I have to say
it’s true that no gratuities
were due and never
gratitude came through)
But then one day a sinew snapped.
Not a sinew in my corpse beneath
that weight but something in my brain
unwarped and then a brilliant light
went on and all my chivalry was gone
at least in terms of humping shit
beneath which other people sit.
Childhood trauma
badass karma
daddy complex
weird Electra
stuff stuck there
since baby birthing
all that corporal
punishment hurting
Narcissistic
sociopathic
borderlinish
psychopathic
prissy stuck-up
Mummy’s girl
or alcoholic
moody churl
Just get the hell
out of my life
I’ll never have
you for my wife!
So now I wend my merry way
(alone of course)
with pseudonyms and sobriquets
to keep my self anonymous
lest all those loads of detritus
should try to dump themselves
on me
For dogs in mangers
feel the need to drag down
anyone who’s free
They specially look for empty backs
to house their hatefilled haversacks
but then when you have had enough
and jettison those burdens roughly
to the ground they are astounded
you could be so selfish, ruthless
cold, unkind — a psychopath
you’ll be defined according to
their twisted mind, projecting
on you every little accusation
they can find.
Thus when I meet a lady new
the first thing that I calmly do
is check her back to see what’s there
and if I spy some poisoned goods
(or maybe that word should be bads)
I then politely take a bow
and smile and say No thanks, not now
and then with haste make for the door
my face towards her all the way
lest she should see my soft unguarded
rear and think it could be suitable
on which to lay her myriad repressed
and decomposing fears along with
countless years accumulating vengeful
thoughts disguised by sexual veneers
to magnetise a guileless foolish
wide-eyed musketeer.
Despite the ladies’ burdens I once bore
I will not be a bag man anymore!
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 