the Scientist’s Flaw

Focus on the road, you tell yourself. Not long to go now, but time is running out. Scorned and utterly defeated, you left the sanctuary of his arms — his love. But not because people change (they don’t). But because you wanted to (you could). Slip away in the night and not give another thought to it. Headstrong and sure of yourself, you are all of these things with your eyes shut. So you slip away silently, sharply in contrast to how you entered — so much noise, so much fuss.

Of many things you know the answers to. And this is how you made your choice. To go. On the side of the weathered road, an elder man sitting alone. You wonder what his story is.

As for you, you were she. The wife of Bath. You knew the answer the queen would accept, but only because it was the answer written on the surface of your heart.

 

the Laws of Love (of which there are none)

So let your joy well up from deep inside you and spill forth from your eyes
— crucify her with love’s poison-tipped arrows and honeysuckled lies.

 

the Loss of Love (of which there are many)

Guilt is blood on the Japanese blade. And on its footstone, warriors and lovers alike lay slain. Corpses in coitus; in heaps of half-baked hate.

Fucking beyond the grave to surrender to the blame
But you, you must extract her pain
Kiss her softly. And start all over againShe was pure
She waited
And when you pushed her away
She pushed you back
And you fucked with heat that would make the sun blush

Never mind that the prisoners looked at you and licked their lips as they whacked off to oblivion. You looked into the eyes of one of them — and watched as they rolled up so high into the back of his head.

And at sundown you took the return trip through homes bereft of colour. But you won’t have to live with it. Not anymore you won’t.

So he says it’s a great big mistake, this guy, stands on the booth table in a ’50s-style diner (all red and white striped, checkerboard floor, you know it) and says to nobody in particular, “it’s a great big mistake is what it is”. He was dressed in a wool coat and had messy facial hair, getting only as much with his little act as a momentary glance from probably 3 or 4 edgy patrons before they turned back to their business. And this guy, the waitress takes him by the arm and leads him down the table. She gives him a hug, a kiss on the forehead (but nothing more, you see, dandruff and lice) and he bawls into her houlder, clutches that sweet girl’s tiny little ass. He gives a groan — finality — and he just up and walks out the glass door.

And it’s a broken scene (a social one, if you will), but from behind contact lenses it’s emerald-tinted. Not surprisingly, these are the only things worth looking out towards. What’s sacred is not to be touched, except by evil itself. And it’s always a broken social scene, when it’s time to go.

Is it not difficult, then, saying goodbye? There is, after all, a sense of severance — by definition now, it is its very nature.

 

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Thanks:
 Jam
 Paris Sicat
 Sari Dalena