It’s a sorry sight;
the plain old movie
in black and white
but mostly grey
and your floral dress
shining in silver, showing
nothing of the comfort of
spring your eyes bring;
the twinkle in our eyes dimmed and
the colourlessness of mundane words
swamped over abruptly
to rupture souls and vindictive scars
which scream occasionally
to the terrible abruptness of the love
which lives through a hiatus,
and it isn’t fair, not
when you have Venus in your arms,
it has been turned blue.
And it isn’t fair to be
asked to transform melancholy to the mild
smoke from your cheap cigarette.
It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair;
checks and crosses and
shapes and horizons, but we’re here,
running around in circles;
it isn’t fair.
I wish it was,
I wish we breathed without corners to embrace;
I wish it was,
I wish we were naive enough for it.


12 thoughts on “Incompatible

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