Tell me things
of profound significance
and you have a pair of
unfulfilled ears.
Tell me not
of your latest phase,
nor of what you had
for breakfast and what you
didn't.
Tell me that you
and I
are born out of
the same explosive star.
Tell me that your
rented house and mine
will burn and
collapse
under the heat
of the same sun.
Tell me not of
the latest track
doing its rounds and
selling tee-shirts and raising
eyebrows.
Tell me not of
the latest scandal
engineered by ghosts
on their pet nymph.
Tell me that
you'll die tomorrow
and that my words
will remain in you
and rot in velvet flannel
as they lay you to sleep
under the ageing grass
sprinkled with holy water
decorated with lazy inscriptions.
Tell me not
your latest trick, tell
me not your mother's
tryst with a man as
old as you.
Tell me that you'll
stay young and burn
with me when the
crowds come, calling me on
bringing me to account
for all that I failed to talk of.
Tell me not of the many things that trouble you.