About a poet who never writes a thing

I

I am a man of no dispersion
suffering in the hurting hole,
dug deep, from which one
doesn’t wish to return

and so piles the soil
back over his body, blotting out le soleil,
but buries a dormant seed. I draw, my duvet
over my face, and fatally away from toil.

I’d wish to pirouette,
for my burn to spur me,
and send off radiance
from my vibrant centrifuge self

but I’ve been spurned and whirl
within the world erected
around you, monumentally,
Lo, like one of Poe’s entombed girls.

My frail and vile verse
“come back to me”
offends those men of worth
who have loved poetry.

“Man is weak; God sleeps
and heaven is high:
One fiery-coloured moment:
one great love; and lo! We die."

My sex stirs but one fetid thought,
that of falling to a fit of tears
as I watch you talk the ticklish subject
while my mind wanders to your tortuous, ticklish spots.

II

I am a man without a hope
to wake up and leave sleep thoughtlessly,
accept the mock sun of these days
and clear from clouds of dark dream smoke.

So they proceed in a haze,
labyrinthine. Though I’m not surprised,
not amazed, just lost in and struck
by the lusterless hint of lust in your gaze.

I’d wish to sail and forget.
For yearn to spare me
and send me off gracefully
from my moaning mooring amour, yet

my skewed heart is unanswerable.
I wither; wan palour, pansies in hands,
vain love poems and swan wings, singing
of Pan’s nymphs who poison Gabriels.


My life is sickening ugly
and bare. You took precious time,
the three years I thrived,
and then took the ardor the adorned me.

You never could or never cared
enough to ever prove
your right and rare love
to the most righteous man who dared.