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I’ve spoken too much: if I come here it will be
For how blondes walk on the sidewalks and to wed
And to be with domestic appliances. This is
Not my own voice -- honk if it’s yours.
The unfortunate thing about vacuum cleaners,
Well this is embarrassing, the bags fill
At the most inconvenient times with
Bits of past, the dust of what we meant to be,
Crumbed shadows of what we said seven thousand nights ago.
I’ve spoken too much: whose self was it then
And who is this I see so beautiful so distant so
Illicit so necklace of diamonds and pleasures:
I wonder if it should matter to me at all that you
Be able to analyze any literary text I throw
At you: The Ramparts of No Knight We Know.
The Known Sorrow of Ram Parts at Dusk.
What if you just threw up your lovely hands?
As who should murmur, “That is not what I meant at all.”
What if you just threw up and left me alone
In the Hamburger Hamlet of the life that could not stay?
I’d return, of course, because we can’t not return,
But (and there is always always always a but)
Only yesterday I was asleep and dreaming of you
Or almost about someone very much like someone
Who I imagine would be very much like you but
(And there is always a but) an elastic tolerance amazes me –
Yours, or anyone’s. I am selfish. I am so.
So there. I told you I was lonely
And I meant it.
Well I didn’t utter the words,
But (there always is one) neither do birds.
Geese fly over the meadows of your absence and honk
In a voice so loveless it need not mock;
And I shall marry a microwave, toaster, or clock.
(c) J. Allyn Rosser, Mark Halliday, Martin Stannard, 2004