Really really really don’t mind, e[i]ther*

* Since this poem was first written about an hour ago, it has gone through several relatively substantial revisions.  If you have already liked it, I suggest you doublecheck that this is still the case, and if not, amend your choice or – maybe – leave a comment.  Either way, thank you to you all for taking enough interest in my work to read it!  🙂

I really really really 

don’t mind the 

games you play about

my person:

I sensed them for a

lifetime now, and as I know 

no other 

life than 

this flat life

I know this long,

I cannot

de-

text enough – nor ever 

appreciate, nor

make clear to 

one, nor two nor a 

million –

the alternative to what 

you do to me, 

every day I wake,

of this life I have – and the 

one once held so dear

between a

youthful 

expectation of your (and

yore!) –

to ever want it bad

enough to dare to think

the change be made 

of true and truth and hurt soon

ending;

to ever want to ever think the

change could do much more

than past 

my old and long-

passed rue of streets, once 

proudly walked – and now

just stalked.

So clearly I am now 

immune,

clearly even 

to you I’m sure, to all

attempt to

tempt me brightly with thoughts 

of 

joyous built-

[w]in

relation, or wondrous 

scene of happy person-

who

gently lean-

s,

and lean-

s again 

against another other 

person,

and so allowed

some humanity to be the 

breath 

of life, as warmth of skin and

touch of people real, and soft 

and tough,

supposedly mean-

s

I’d yearn

for other 

year of plainly plainly 

plainly done.

But you, dear people –

far too late in

baleful attempts to

prove I am wrong about the

life I could lead, and the future 

you claim did once exist

for me out

[t]-

here, and for me i-

nside … oh, good-

less me.

And I honestly am

so very used to 

all by now, to all

by row; 

for you have 

fired all cardboard 

cartridge in such an empty

uni-

son-

g.

I really am,

you 

no I can

!

And there is now 

no nothing 

you might

do to make me want your

life so very much 

for me to need 

to change what’s in

sad grasply fingered,

in any 

way

you demand of me: 

my

ways,

and means and seeings 

and doings and 

daft 

believings, and curious

dreamings that once did 

make me

fly and now 

just make

me 

goddamn sigh.

And what if I am bereft of all hope? 

Why must that matter? 

Why should I care?

And so this is when

I sense good fortune: 

and for

the stricken in spirit this

is the safest place: 

the

safest place to see, the safest

place to eek a type of

contract with this

verse we scroll 

and roll 

and sometimes 

right and

scribe and bribe, like 

old hell’s 

compact of ancient 

time.

So never ask any soul for

things

you’d fear to lose, nor 

loosen being with 

such heart nor

taste;

for far far worse would

be your lot if 

then

it was,

than were this nothing,

nothing said nor 

grandly 

bedded nor 

em-

bedded 

wistfully out of hope.

And you know where you 

all really went wrong?  

You do know where

you all fucked up?  You 

do know why your plans 

and stuff did

break themselves instead of

me?

In repeating patterns of 

carrot and stick so 

very much and

[of-

{ten]n-

ed} now that even I could

see what clearly is

truth

around, a-

bounding tiresome,

boring and wearisome 

tall and taled and 

tailed and railed and

in that e[i]ther 

which now

does shroudly manage to 

contain me,

and obviously, 

manifestly, serves to 

institutionalise

my 

was, 

my 

are, and now

my will

be,

true and 

long,

as far as I will be 

sa[i]d.

To such a degree 

that I am no

longer 

master.

To such a degree

that mistress 

is 

finally

beyond 

me.

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