We don’t love what flatters us.
I could not lie to either,
Though I tried, telling her,
Who was not smart,
“I love your mind!”
And telling her, ugly as a fart,
“I love your body! Can I kiss your behind?”
So none love me now.
Lying is best. But I don’t know how.
So, what can I do now
But take revenge in poems
Which say, fuck it, here’s the truth?
I can tell it because I am its truth.
Only we are the truth, and the lies
Everything not us; even our eyes
Show copies, so nothing original
Exists; only we, ephemerally beautiful,
Coy and partial, stuck in time and place
Are real. Nothing else. Not a trace.
So this is the truth, because it’s me;
The sole attraction of my poetry.
I can only love the physical;
The physical moves me to love, not you;
And that’s why I’m helpless talking to these two:
She, who is smart, I do not love,
Though our talk is delightfully witty,
But then I am stupid with this one,
For I am smitten by the pretty.
And never have the two lived in one.
I’m blinded by the physical.
So who the hell am I, to praise the sun?
I fail to love all things. Even my poetry
Fails. It divides me.
