Whilst I was just a young man-to-be / The tearfulness of gentle happy / Y DNA, yer know?

I resist the temptation to see life as a battle.

I’d much rather it became not a ground but a foundation

stone: not to throw at

or hurt, but to return with that love and the wholesome

em-

brace of the sex which supports.

 

And whilst life for me is still a tort-

ure, and she precisely

is the reason why, I attempt and do try to make sense of

the shite that

hits me in the face, leaving no trace

to detect nor

retract nor

comprehend the real nature of the pain

which her cultures have brought me.

 

And so in wider sense,

to add to my resistance against Balkans,

like malevolent antibacterial, designed to kill subject

not bacteria itself, the place I once loved

and once chose to call dear Spain

is now just as

off-limits to me

as Balkans ever became:

not because it does have to be

that way at all,

but simply because the baggage which

cruel seas [I mean foreign cousins!] and

crueller strife [I mean once treasured wife!]

have attached to my thoughts with respect to both

places,

prevent me from not

racing madly to conclusions

about the awful things they both

did to me:

[these foreign cousins I mentioned] and [in-laws

quite tragic,

quite familial,

quite psychotic], in

deed and in

fact and in

no tact at all –

like foreign objects introduced violently

into

sacred

intimate

unprotected

orifice –

whilst, all this time, I was

just a young

man-to-be.

 

And forever yous all were

hovering impatiently

around the me yous thought I actually was:

and the hurt of my love

and the mistake grand I made at the start …

… oh, why not

now simply

give me the way

to a far better

and so much more productive life?

Why must I struggle and fight

to achieve

even this:

the happiness of gentle sad;

the tearfulness of gentle happy?

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