Trainers, yous / Trainee, me

So in fact yous 

who love me, I do know this fact,

were trainers 

not lovers: you loved me, still do,

but you were never in love

with the me I still am able to see

more than poetically.

And that is the tragedy

this story

always 

was to narrate: 

a gate left wide open; a man hoarse of 

bleating his innocence – or something 

like that, anyhow.

And your goal has been achieved: 

to free me

of dreadful – 

inhumane – jealousy, and make me

strong enough to keep

myself – 

once standing tough – 

away from that stuff she’s been sending 

strange ways;

my ways;

all these goddamn stays;

days and days of them, remaindered and penned,

and sheepishly 

penned in!

But in truth, neither of 

yous – neither Claire nor Ruth – have 

done what they did to end

up with me

as 

if I might be a man of just 

be for fabulous 

them.

Neither has ever conceptualised

me as someone to be 

treasured at all sexually:

an object – mebbe! – of some other affection:

strangely expressed,

I guess.

But all the same, 

in much the same way

as my wife did go and name me – 

and blame me –

two years’ ago as 

“the man who 

repels me, and 

repels me muchly so”, 

for both of yous the attraction 

in any sense like 

that is almost certainly closer to zero

than other heroes would have

ever deserved.

And this is when I see the beauty of it all:

as cold and harsh

as any cruelly felt reality – out there truly – of 

our TV-laden and 

punishable time.

My love for yous guaranteed no pleasure 

for me:

and I am to suffer as 

painfully as all the women whose suffering 

I have all these years 

roared quite insensible.

For my place, in the end,

is to live

alone and safely distant from the other 

women who future-

like I’d only go and hurt,

again.

Formula 1 she did show me the day

of my 54th: 

and Formula 1 

I will finish my days – unable to ever make good in my life,

to one solemn wife,

a single solemn 

promise.

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