new-happy, p’raps

new-h[app]y is

you-happ[y] is

me-[ha]ppy is

all-

[go]{od(d)}]:

i can only intend my ha[r]dest,

as diabolic s[l]ope-

s write cur[i]{o}(us) lines that

time and

r[hyme-

n] my [sta{y}-

{men}] of curious clim[b]s.

 

actually, really, what i mean to say

is i know i’m not ill,

and you have known for really

quite some time

too, but between this and

that, it’s rather old hat

to want to correct injustice:

far better to

sink the ring of fireside

chat

amongst whisky and that and

this, sat comfortably in

leathered armchair, whilst

leathered do become our brains.

 

and in the end, it’s goddamn true:

i’m just a human being,

like he, her and you.

and whilst you may say i no longer

have a right to be happy,

i think even in my case it’d be

truly sappy

and truly savvy

and truly kind

of truly natural and wondrous mind

to admit right upfront:

miljenko – you deserve a gentle hand!

 

the one that takes hold

of the cold fingers

untouched

for nigh on

thirty years of lonely and bitter

re-

p-

roach.

and like insect she’s been in her

hardness

and sold,

i really do want out;

i’ve simply nowhere to go.

 

and so like any abused,

and used

and reused,

i have blamed myself for so goddamn

long: it’s become my

mantra – kind of

a song i used to sing myself to

sleep with

as i relieved in shameful

darkness hidden

the sadnesses i felt.

 

i guess you could argue,

if debate was your thing, that between cling

and clang and rang

and ring,

unreasonably apportioned,

i’m quite probably the loneliest man

on the rock.

 

and all i care for right now

is that the kindness

of your touch – whoever you may

be, however you might

come and greet me – might reach me

soon and sound,

so no longer will the round-

a-

bout of battle fro and to

be that thing which

rules my love-

life

cruel, as tool of these women who

do so control.

 

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