If the insulting is true

I must be careful how I speak of you

Because I love you, and you are a shit,

So with great care my poem must speak of it.

A poet should not be afraid to tell

What put the poet—and his lover—into hell.

Talk about it, poet, for the good of all.

Love is not sacred, except that we fall,

Like I fell in love with you.

Commandments or advice, which tell us the right thing to do,

Do not interest me.

Insult is true, and hides best in beautiful poetry.

The truly insulting hurts as much

As pleasure gives pleasure with pleasure’s touch.

Only the physical is true.

It may or may not talk. It either soothes, or wounds, you.

Two things happen: either silently we are wronged

Or lies are spoken, as if we belonged.

The truth will never be spoken to you

But truth exists, in everything people do.

The cinema is lying, and will lead to more lies.

Falsity is all and all the truth defies.

I loved you. You wished you were a little taller.

I loved you. You wished you were a little smaller.

Two inches. Twenty pounds. The flaws

Are nothing to the poet. But they who cannot love will follow those laws.


1 Comment

  1. September 13, 2017 at 9:24 pm

    Love this — alas (and should love not)!

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