Lament

I know your kind:

the suffering intellectual;

overly sensitive and

melodramatic. Almost

always pale, and with spindly

fingers that grip

your only weapon - the pen -

that wear the constant

wounds of battle, paper cuts

from which you tenderly kiss

blood off,

refusing the offer of

a tissue or a plaster - some

sort of new age declaration

of in-dependency and gender role

reversals, because

you think too much.

And you want me to see it;

how everything you say is

layered with meaning

from obscure books you've read

that I've never even heard of,

how your words are

carefully chosen and lovingly

crafted, how you

write down a sentence or phrase

that strikes you as

beautiful, a quirk, you say,

but to me, merely

a gestus for all the actors

who play your type.

Because I know your kind:

the sentimental poems and

songs to first capture the heart,

then cage it in.

I know the questions that

betray your insecurity

do you love me

do you love me

do you love me?

Do I love you? The unrelenting

calls at midnight,

the emotional blackmail, the

crying, the fights. No not

fights - debates. For there

is an artist's hand in

everything you do.

Life is one big canvas,

spread out for your art,

your words, your

self-indulgence.

And always, always and

above all, your loyalty

is to beauty.

Beauty in all

things, in the face of your

lover, in the way you

hold their hand, the way

you touch the side of their

face, the way your

lips brush theirs, the way you break

their heart.