You do not seem to love my pious moods, you disdain my formal meditation, but when I come home with the smell of a new woman in my gums, and, after making love to my dark companion, while she sleeps, masturbating with the fond recollection of the two of us eating Joleen, you arrive gently to be with me at the bar of the Rainbow on Stanley Street, only pulling back a little as I write this down.
That was the night of July 26, 1972.
You deceived me that night in your disguise of peace.
Look where I am now.
My dark companion lost
for whose company I ache.
My children entering the strangerhood.
Your forms are immaculate.
Behind the mask of grief
you bend me to the table.
Your idols perfect
in all that they so thoroughly deny.
Far into the night
you continue to manifest as her absence.