A window just isn’t
without a face and its eyes, and
intent all together as
that desire and wish and demand to
reside in a place of pointed vantage, a place of command.
And without that being sliced into, the steely surgical onward march of
iris and pupil and student all, where beyond and within me the watcher does accede and fire up their
access without rejection’s fear, there is
nothing to life, nothing at all I say, without the ball
not of total surveillance but rather, much more, the whore’s deathly truths:
“Without me you are incomplete!”
And yet just like the window without the piercing glance,
so equally the woman or man who wearily sells their body to you:
“Without what I do, you are nothing …” they will whisper;
and yet equally, dear friends,
no sale takes place without the soul to
whom the whisper might be
And so we look through that window, to that damp and doleful street
below, and we circle that
chair in lonely space
and cafe time – actually only there for felicitous rhyme! –
and just as the window means
nothing outside your gaze, and just as
the chair has no sense without its space, losing all purpose without its owner’s
so the buying and selling of love’s tawdry paper wrapt is so very sad, so awfully bad;
and yet even as I know this,
and even as the bad I never have committed, in the depths of my loneliness I do begin to sense
that little else now can ever successfully serve
sage’s deathly dormant life.
Whether sad or bad – or bad or sad – in truth for so many the word
does become apt.
And then why am I different?
What makes me another?
In the absence of real love, why not the paper wrapt
of fake boxed in sentiment?
Why not just give up, and