Thursday, September 27, 2012

a new poem

                          regrets from h to a

holding no regrets for lies he’s told
he does bemoan a certain lack of loyalty
his lies have shown him

given time and all the loss he’s ever known
great strides in conscience grace his girlish gait
gaily walking swiftly toward mayhem

fearing men who can’t outrun their trousers*
feeling he has left his pants exhausted at the door
fled becomes the only strategy he leaves behind 

every little heartbeat letter sound may bore him
evacuating cavities of if and next
each time he tries to flee his bowels deform him

despite goodwill he runs from every little score
decrying any love that tries to sing him
denigrating the use of inlet when his taste for foreign lingo favors fjord

could the narrow breadth of vast unopened heartache
castrate the way he waddles into wrath
cavorting with the this and that - what have you

beneath the folds of one crass outlandish gown
belying the unflappable tags of dignity
besieged by definitions that have him prancing out of town

absolution from untruths he knew would haunt him
await him at those blanched  and toothy gates
aware that all the things that fight to love him

are all the things he doesn’t really hate…

*  “a man can’t out run his trousers” - from Alistair MacLeod’s play No Great Mischief

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