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Poetry Magnum Opus

Here in the Funhouse


dedalus
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Here in the funhouse, boys and girls,

avoid the malignant trapdoors,

obey anticipatory warnings,

be aware of hidden, spiky mines

floating on lines,

under the deep and dark blue sea.

 

I loved you, and you liked that,

but the gap between like and love

is a river without a bridge:

nothing, nothing at all

can get you across.

 

You knew, yet now

this blank silence, consciously intended,

is killing me.

Well, it's a hard and cruel way

to reject a lover, never mind if you actually dislike him;

it's such a passive and easy way out -- so very cold.

 

Women have hurt and bruised me

so many times: well, never mind,

I have done the same, I expect,

along with a failure to show respect:

I am so sorry,

sometimes.

 

It's only now I begin to understand.

 

I have lived with not a few

and made love with many more,

but, surely, that is not the point.

They used to be looking at me

and I used to be looking at them as well

and the electricity was crack-crack-crack.

 

But that's all gone.

Women's eyes pass over me now.

They couldn't be bothered.

But here is me

still looking.

 

I like most women --

and my attention, my intention

is admiring, relaxed and cool.

I have never been a fool.

Compliments, smiles, a dance,

the beginnings of a new romance,

are infinitely more important

than Wars and Governments and Kings:

real life consists of simple things.

 

version 2

 

Here in the funhouse, boys and girls,

avoid any malignant trapdoors,
obey anticipatory warnings;
be aware of hidden, spiky mines,
floating on lines,
under the deep and dark blue sea.
I loved you, and you liked that,
but the gap between like and love
is a cloud without a bridge:
nothing, nothing at all
can get you across.
You knew, yet now
the blank silence, consciously intended,
is killing me.
Well, it's a hard and cruel way
to reject a lover, never mind if you dislike him;
such a passive and easy way out -- so very cold.
Women have hurt and bruised me
so many times: oh, never mind,
I have done the same, I expect,
along with a failure to show respect:
and I am so grindingly sorry,
sometimes, anyway.
It's only now I begin to understand.
I have lived with not a few
and made love with many more,
but, surely, that is not the point.
They used be looking at me
and I used be looking at them
and the electricity was clickety-clack.
Well, that's all gone.
Women's eyes pass over me now.
They couldn't be bothered.
But here is me
still looking.
I like most women --
and my attention, my intention
is admiring, relaxed and cool.
I am only, slightly, a fool.
Compliments, smiles, a dance,
the beginnings of a new romance,
are infinitely more important
than wars and ministers and kings:
real life consists of simple things.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Soooooo Much fun. Like 1, enjoy 2. Don't know which is better, neither would I say -- "That's Bren!" But none the less, just fine, fun tributes to love and slightly older perspectives

 

 

Juris

thegateless.org Come on over and check out my poetry substack y'all;-) Or if your bored, head to the Zazzle store: https://www.zazzle.com/store/gateless. If you buy anything I lose a bet, so consider that before you violate the digital rules.

 

Gate(less.png

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This is of course the male curse. Enjoyed your variant of it.

Many of us could write a companion piece.

I tire of it, at my age, and at the same time find it sustaining in its cruel way,

What can one do, short of intervening in one's own physiology? Not my choice.

And we must accept that the women won't understand.

Write on . . .

from the black desert

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  • 3 weeks later...

I had a mental image as I began reading: of a ball-bearing shot up into a pinball machine. It pinged and beeped as I read on, until finally it rolled and settled into that significant last line, "real life consists of simple things." Though I suppose chance has a great deal to answer for. B.

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