The more my years have multiplied,
the more I’ve come to realise
that even more important
than mere love
For love is soon misunderstood
misused abused and trampled on
and has as many meanings as
its theatre actors choose to give,
who live by their escapist dreams,
believing pheromones, it seems,
and so much wanting to be loved
that they will heed whatever words
some cad will whisper in their ear
(for almost everything is ruled
by fear of death, abandonment —
which are the warp and woof of
all that stands between ourselves
and evidence of love through grace).
Romance is dead. Therefore, long live true love!
When all worth saying has been said, I raise
my hat and bow my head, remove the glove
which romance uses well to mask love’s blaze.
Romance, I now pronounce you dead and gone.
You once amused me with your froth and dreams
when I was young and hung my hat upon
a plethora of June-Moon-Spoonly schemes.
Live dangerously! and grasp that nettle
by the leaves — the rose by its spiky thorns
(ignoring the allure of each petal) —
then grab the bullock by its gory horns.
Be sure you never quickly turn away
when darkness rears its ugly little head.
Walk naked straight into the maelstrom fray
regardless if it leaves you there for dead.
There is a price to be paid for perfectionism’s
purple pros(e)aically prejudiced plume
which we can grownly assume is roughly equal to:
ª The harsh disapproval directed one’s way
[for high expectations will always dismay
as low self-esteem and a lack of resolve
result in resentment, so none get involved!].
ª The aloneness one has (dressed in freedom’s disguise)
[for almost the whole world will run for their lives
when they hear of the earnest desire to preserve
one’s nature unswervingly: “He’s got a nerve!”]
Here this man now sits and stands and paces
round the room while twin-scented swirling
strands make fiery dangling traces round the
edges of his tiny ever-[never]-reaching hands
The strands of which I speak are two and golden
flamed and tainted handsomely and guaranteed
to thrill and ultimately fill the yearning burn of
glistening dreams (undoing over-tightened seams)
What triggers you so easily to throw your “bombs” around
(a metaphor which indicates the nature of your verbal blasts
& all your gauche attempts at playing the part of cold iconoclast)
and make the heartless sounds you do, reacting scornfully to
anything originating from outside your hypernarrow field of view
(instead of looking in yourself and then exploring other worlds
which live beyond the multitude of books upon your shelf),
projecting all the darksome things that you have now become
— for instance, narcissist, derivative and thiefly plagiarising
plunderman who skulks in waiting rooms on doctors’ lists,
a dour old man who’s long forgotten when he last was kissed
by pretty things, a man who never sings or bares his truly soul
but simply plays the role of “I’m-in-charge-and-don’t-get-in-my-
hide-my-tiny-soul-from-view” — on those who you have envied
with your hotly jealous heart; and everywhere are strewed the
now-dead petals from the summer flowers you never bloomed
and all the books you have consumed can never save you now.