I’ve lost the magic touch,
and so I’m falling, crawling through mediocrity,
saying this is I or that is I, but endless.
Defined by moving lines of you,
defined by turning, swerving,
I don’t know where I’m going and
you laugh.
Don’t pack me in this box you say,
I’m not a shining bright white letter,
capital and known, I’m another,
and another,
and sun on your terrace.
I’m the rays,
grazing on your knees as you hit tarmac,
saturating in grovel, gravelling,
ending in shams,
shambles of needy calls,
into the sunken wise man’s ears I go.
“Get up!” you say and so I do.
So you look at me in one of
two ways, either dead or ray-like,
on sunny sunny terraces.
“But isn’t love endless?” – Oh, you silly silly child, no wonder you’re always tripping up.
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