My mind would’ve seen you if my eyes were blind;
the snatches of lipped smile and shouting breasts
arresting me to the sexual swatting of fly
and the ill-confident prayer for mounting music
where you and I compose the life and crowd
Introduce rituals expected and enacted
Exhibition saddles the safe of inhibition
so that I’m visiting within you and you in me
Discoveries in sweaty, adult-worded nothings
granted respect by fleshy objects with strings
The feeling floats that we’re bugs on blissing bloom
and so committed are we to the glowing Oneself
that we’re lending hearts without I.O.U.s
Who knows or cares whose is whose
when purpose is abandoned for the dream-awake
Laughter twists in the fatalism of dishonesty
I say objects are objects, you ask what’s in-between
We’ve forgotten our bodies to fuck with our minds
so that solutions play hide-and-seek and love is intrusive
Should we have known that happiness obsesses holes?
This new mind order breeds discomfort and interest
Am I a leaf on a tree or a tree with leaf?
Unanswered, ignorance is a shield and I the common Man
…but asking travels the way of echoes of echoes
until I accept that redemption and victim live hand in hand
This is Alone.
A tribute to confusing love and John Fowles’ ‘The Magus’. Image by Pexels from Pixabay.