Ki, as we ran, I jumped from Dr Scholes
to skid on snow, cos I did, not to fall.
Wet toes and dope-high-roads, beer blurs, I smeared
a tyre-print with my sock. Turned. You leap-hugged
me, bowled me over with your cannonade
in a fur coat, always formidable
(then pulled me off the road as a van roared).
Though thin and fit and racked with sullen grief,
you could not see the same in me, just how
when you closed-in too dammed hell-bat heavy,
her living ghost was there a few months gone,
distressed me too when I became averse,
hardly to breathe in chains, I'm weirded - but
what? Your slumps of self-despair, dark envy!
Remember how we sixty-nined so well
and neither of us had done that much before.
It was so easy until you clung and sunk
and that dismayed the very spunk of it.
Yet it was you left me to get your babes:
he fathered them who thought tomatoes bad,
but loved to do the stuff you hippies did.
How come now later you think me at fault
for never having loved you as you did?
Strange how your mind so twists a story round,
Your envious downers downed my dick for you.
You ran to do just what you had to do,
and when you'd got the babes, so to live free,
you lurched across the restless Irish Sea.
.....................
Written in decasyllabic lines.
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Puisi"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
