To Rolfe.

Those round and bulging and luminous eyes!
And those ears that hung outward like a bat!
An expression of a Pug in disguise –
Mobile even before the drop of the hat!
Tawny coloured, alert and bendy-backed,
A flimsy walk and a nonchalant air,
Quite a few faults I know he did not lack,
A will that would make him pick any dare.
That was Rolfe, whom some call my second best –
E’en I used to think so up until now –
Now that he has passed the Ultimate Test:
To prove I loved him anyway and how!
Angels came and took him from us today,
I loved him – guess that’s all I wanted t’say.

20th November

My Love Threatens.

He grows away from me!
But why do I even care?
What? Why?
Years have passed, haven’t they?
I should have escaped Love’s snare!

Love made me compromise!
And always I was the one cheated!
My heart proved cold initially –
Was always the one to get slowly heated!

So much heat that, on reflection,
Makes me the fool!
As his warm heart flitters down
And he gets to play Daddy Cool!

I bare my fucking soul,
In this fucking love game,
So much so that my fucking pride,
Keeps forgetting my fucking name!

My name! That I’ve created
With such arrogant determination!
And now it rests in his hand
Bearing heated flagellation!

It comes finally to this point:
Where he threatens with an illicit fuck!
My heated heart finally realizes!
It is finally out of luck!

(Tragic.) But the question of Hate
Is never out of Love’s circumference!
The opposite of both creatures
Is flaccid Indifference!

Because my whipped heart is still warm,
I struggle to hold it up at the stake:
What? Why?
Let it cool into feeling nothing?
Or just let the feeling thing break?

A Love Grown Old.

Seven falls have come and gone.
Life has pressed us paper thin.
The seasons pass and love rusts;
Indifference comes creeping in.

No touches now, no parting glances,
No cards or sentiments on flowers;
No tender private smiles
To ease the pain of the passing hours.

The hours! Oh, the hours
Hasten away and my body grows cold,
While I wonder if this is true
Of a love that seems to grow old.

Grows old with my ageing face,
With those young eyes now morose,
Over a lack of interest,
In a love, in captured repose.