I think I like these mad men
And then they act mad
And I’m like
And then I realise I haven’t thought of you for seven hours.
That kind of sex gets into your head and into your body, makes it difficult to think or move.
I don’t have the energy to hate this morning
I accidentally bought your laundry detergent and now I smell of you everyday
I see a particular shade of freckle and I remember your nose
Shakespeare is dead but you’re the black man that makes him alive
Marriage isn’t so abstract when I connect it to you
You are the one I want to cuddle
I look for your bright eyes in the darkness
Lord, give him to me.
The one hiding behind your cross.
You know it’s only a matter of time before his nature betrays him.
I’ll look after him.
Won’t try to control him or keep him.
I’ll let him be everything you made him scared to be.
Nothing’s going to happen to him.
Her fearlessness frightens me.
Life is full of extremes. Love and Hate and nobody cares about what is in between. But I do. I care about mediocre people. They perplex me and vex me and if I could get my hands around a mediocre person’s neck…They are thieves and vagabonds dressed in nothing, but splendour.
Her mediocre face looks up happily, eyes bright behind her mediocre skin. She has no cause for happiness and yet it is the privilege of her mediocrity, not to see it. And he…a waste of what could be, a not quite, a worse than mediocrity. I can’t look at mediocre people, standing tall and unashamed. I cover them in my criticism and yet it is my curse to see them all the same.
You call me cruel knowing that if things got nasty so would I. I won’t do anything specific to hurt you; only leave you. Leave you like you left me. Leave you like you never imagine I will leave you. It will hurt. The waiting with hope wavering into depression. Feeling, thinking, that I don’t care, don’t remember. That will please me, you hurting. You could call me cruel now that things have gotten nasty and so have I.