yeah, the sun, the moon,
the craving, the coffee in the morning,
thesis, antithesis, synthesis
the old dream out in the open
and the girl who doesn't say "I love you"

she's whispered in the mist
of unknown cities
devoted
en pathos
(like the priestesses of the old temples)
young horses measuring the
silence between words
hello, says the devil

and the sun and the moon,
the craving follow unknown routes
she's having her coffee black
in an imaginary morning
holding the synthesis of "I do"&"I don't"
(love you fiercely)

her shadow is passing
with the wind
between memories
chasing the shape of
tomorrow

Had you been born,
my Tibetan bowl and whale song
would have been deafened by
dawn-struck alarm clocks
and ***** down my album sleeve.

Had you been born,
I would be toiling dishonest fields
for an honest go at living.
I would be sober for an evening
and wake with habitual ease.

Had you been born,
none of these words would be written
and poetry could only reside
in the spelling of your name
and your clumsy, childish gait.

Had you been born,
you would have stolen all love,
to the point I would hate myself
and only find fractions of it
in the women I would meet.

Had you been born,
I would have learned how to speak
in assertive tones
to regiment your mind,
to distil you from violence.

Had you been born,
I would now be an adult
with no margin for error,
no time for a future,
but with the promise of a home.

I never said I loved you, John:
  Why will you tease me day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
  With always "do" and "pray"?

You know I never loved you, John;
  No fault of mine made me your toast:
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
  As shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would take
  Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
And pray don't remain single for my sake
  Who can't perform that task.

I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not;
  But then you're mad to take offence
That I don't give you what I have not got:
  Use your own common sense.

Let bygones be bygones:
  Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
  Than answer "Yes" to you.

Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
  Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
Catch at today, forget the days before:
  I'll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
  No more, no less; and friendship's good:
Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
  And points not understood

In open treaty. Rise above
  Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,
  No, thank you, John.

Are you suffering from Bleeding Heart Syndrome?
The regrettable empathy for swollen crowds
of decimated veins and charity bags
being laid upon every front door.

The red tops scorn compassion and reason.
If you are searching for derivatives and elements
amongst insoluble problems, then you have no right
to a meaningful opinion.

Do you battle with your conscience as the addict
bundles his syringes into the public bin?
You have been told more than enough times
to flog and to point the finger.

And so why do you cry? Blood is precious
and yet you pour it out for another lost cause,
whilst there are countless functioning adults
who have worked hard to earn your approval.

Do not waste your time with understanding
when there are taxes to be paid,
whilst bombs retain our strategic place;
whilst we are running low on space.

I do not want to talk about love today.
I do not want to mention
affectionate contact or semi-regular ***.
The newspapers are bringing forth
welcome divisions between mankind;
fault-lines of irreconcilable differences
to justify my half-hearted attempt at solitude.

I do not want to talk about sobriety today.
I do not want to bore you
with those nervous hours between cigarettes
and how I fill each moment spent inside myself.
******* offers a ladder of perfume and hair
for me to ascend to some anaerobic bliss,
towards an isolated unity between myself

and the woman stretched out on my astral bed.
I do not want to talk about much today.
I have over-thought all that is worth a mention.

I imagine your mind, imagining mine,
as we imagine yours.

© Matthew Harlovic