I’m watching the detectives. The love police. They eat like pigs. If they can’t have me. Then no one else will. I’ll turn myself in and write sonnets on death row. Wait for the last meal with my true love before they take me with a noose. Whatever happened to I don’t want nobody else, Baby? Is it all words peddled to appease our own insecurities. We all want someone else, Baby. Especially when our spuds are tired of laying on the big brass bed.

Life is just one big learning. And I refuse not to. I have learned everything I want to know. I know that it’s the daft stats that make you love the Sunderland football club. So the question I have pondered. Time over. Is, how did I get trapped. With the someone that didn’t love me? More than one someones. Indeed. It’s the daft stats at it again. I know they didn’t love me. Now. Because they didn’t know me. Didn’t want to know me. Wanted me in a box next to the other vegetables. Edited into a movie role. Or cartooned down. To a caricature of their own fathers. As I loved them as snack caricatures. We all loved illusions. The movie is now over. No one deserves any of the credits that are rolling.

There’s love in everything I guess. But love that doesn’t recognise. The full person. Is a demented sort of love. A dementia caused by loving the white stripes of a starved person slipped between the bars . The black stripes hidden by the quiff of the quill. Waiting for his noose to be loose.

I feel like I’ve done it hard. In matters of love. I’ve played like a pussy. And attracted those that suck. We are what we eat, and I fed them nothing more than dust. No more. I’d rather be me. All of me. And if that is too much. Then it is. Lies, editing, shoddy behaviour. I don’t want to live with the Holy presence of a saint. My dust is milled to be wheat and I feed you my bread as my body. My guess is that if I’m not scripted. Then I won’t go off script. Here’s hoping I didn’t need the writer.

This latest one. She is by far the most natural. The most beautiful. The most just downright Moorish. The one that allows me to be me. And I’m the bird in the cage. With door open. Wondering what’s out there. She is. She’s hungry. Let her devour me. Let me fill her up at last.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s