You slept on a bench and woke to trace a con-
trail to dim rooms where you and I are inseparable.
And yet you are alone, staring at wall-
paper fairytales, hearing rumours on the lawn,
tennis, tinkling cutlery and niceties at the change
of ends. A fly lands on the glass slipper in the gloved
hand of the kneeling prince. That the child was me,
and I, he, is a fraud pulled off with charlatan ease.
You’ve been driving and disassociating, and look
at you now, Rumpelstiltskin, twisting fists in blood-
shot eyes, tracing a pair of carved initials separated
by an upside-down heart. Cupid’s arse.
Caminzind, Barry Lyndon et al. — hurt early and
irrevocably by the crush that sews the chameleon’s clothes
now reduced to loincloth, pith helmet and layers
of foundation that make you up for the umpteenth take.
You haven’t changed a bit: a nice lie in the bunker.
A face translated at multiple removes, translucent
turtles all the way down. I contain a crowd that misread
the big beards of its’ Bildungsroman.
1 October 2015