When we first met,
I dreamt your ex urgently sought my advice.
His divorce pad well-furnished, but
out in the field with no roof or walls.
I pitied him, heard a faint whisper:
First winter winds.
Clutching objects intently,
he didn’t know what went wrong.
How to please you, or how he got there,
How he slept while Isolation,
the sky-dwelling termite,
ate the house top down
left sound foundations without warmth or shelter
(no place to live, really).
Great or lesser men might snap,
He sought other pilgrims at side street
cafes.
Alone again, I build small pagodas daily.
Miniature Lyceums for condemned slack beasts.
Cast swine at pearls; watch them roll, snort and rattle,
restless as beauty imploding.
A gay friend says, “be patient my love”.
His the erotic voice of reason.
Love is just around the corner, but wet,
waiting lacks resilience.
Like Lorca’s nerdy twin on Facebook,
Dispossessed of the oozy machismo which
transmutes despair into love scent,
I fall flat, lie guilty of want, languish in chat rooms
where lust seeks crass or finer bottles,
in Persian chambers where Rumi stayed when The Other stood him up.
Eros turned inward is vaguely suspect; still--
With his luck, no doubt he fucked the whole harem.
- Charlie Hertan
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