all I ever wanted …
I
all i ever wanted was a beautiful intelligent woman who loved me
and then there were two
and i adored them both
but one said
it is not possible to love two people
in that way
at the same time
and the other woman was told the same by the other man she loved
we were told
you can only love one
so we parted ways and i settled down to loving only one
and i tried to learn the pleasure of undivided love
it wasn’t that hard
because i did love her
with the immensity of rainbows
and the feathers growing from between my fingers
i accustomed myself to an all consuming love
which did not allow for days off
it was a love of solitude
an airless vacuum
but it was mine
and it was hers
and maybe i even came to believe
that this was the only true form of love
but she could not love even one
at least not for ever
or not in the same way
or just not me
i am of course grossly unfair
i am bitter
II
but wait
details have been left out
meaning has been left undiscovered
wings have not yet flown
my chronicles are always incomplete
there was my poetry … i should tell you about my poetry
it was my ragged breath
my drunken sprees
the hallucinatory vision of the evangelical rambles of my mind
the fire which i saw in other people’s eyes
tearing out my wings
reading my burning feathers like some kind of holy scripture
never stopping to dwell on my inspiration
because that was how i saw it
the unconscious revelations of my inner gods
III
at the beginning of my story
when my love for her was still enfolded
my poetry was immense
i wrote in classes and sitting in busses and parks
and i was still writing incautious letters to another
and there’s another her and a him
but I don’t have the stamina
and i have already made my excuses my hopeless fragmentation
skipping forward …
unwanted marriages and parting with shared knives and dishes
it all seemed to mean so much
skipping back …
my love for her only intensified my search
for a subjunctive form of love
i felt it within my grasp because my doubts had angelic powers
i’ve spent too long without doubt
ignoring my inspiration
leaving it to rot
IV
soaking my bed with the sweat of some prolific amoeba a week before her return
wide awake the night before
nothing to be expectant of
dry in the cold mountain air
so many signs shoved aside
making room for the surety of domestic life
and leaving no room to write
but is it even worth telling this story again
the reversal of roles
the bitterness and the anger
pen and paper made me tremble
the fear of telling myself the truth that i already knew
this is all looking back
all that remains are the memories and a visceral need to write
to recount and exorcise
to reweave my mouldy wings
to write until i again can see the fire as it burns in other peoples’ eyes
to wrap my flaming wings around me and consume myself
