What was the point at which
enjoyment stopped –
when I disconnected the
slack wires of self
was it IVF, masturbating a
sample
into a plastic cup in a
toilet cubicle in Kings Lynn
while a groaning bloke
loudly defecated
in the next cubicle
or earlier, much earlier
I stood above the railway
tracks
on Vesta Road
above the New Cross Gate
Cutting
and considered jumping
for whole minutes of time
and chose finally to hate
love and
not to love love
such meagre defences as
the brain permits
the imposed devastation
the excitement of others
of children, young lovers
is a foreign tongue
I covet their fluency
their sacrifice to
vulnerability
to admit to excitement is to
admit to compassion or its
equivalents
to admit to the potential of
defeat
it’s all or nothing
it’s binary
buffing the greys into
absolute black.
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