I want the love that other lives have got: the
stroking in private and public,
and the making-up,
and the passion
and the blissing
and the kissing
and the dissing
and the messiness
and the juiciness: goddamnit, that too!
And I want all those things now: all the normal things
all around me
which she don’t allow me:
never has; now, never will.
And the steps will be dreadful and painful and hurt-ridden,
like the once green shoots of grassy bank now riven
thoroughly – and how! – with
spring-time shards of
so near to my actuality that I can feel in her tones
the cold and unkind brea[d]th
of her controlling strategies,
sitting right over me rigid
like Old Testament [s]tale.
But the fear of telling it straight at last compares
little with realities I suffer at this moment
and bemoaning that quiet and silent
unlivedness: I want it no more;
I want quite another;
I want to see you – my
I want to see you
see me …
… as your lover.