The world did not
burst into song and dance
as I expected it to.
You did not care, dared to
risk my wrath by
openly declaring
your indifference. The prophet,
my partner in psychodynamism,
offered no homage to
our dying god, his reverence
elsewhere.
Minority influence causing
deference, we four settled
on benches drenched
in sunlight, which
masked the fear and truth of
hidden desire. Prophet
and King,
banded by blood oath beyond me,
I could not win,
but affected otherwise.
Interrupted at play, your
manner regressed to
childlike shyness, though
your silver tongue
you retained, pitting
your logic and reason against
passionate emotion. Not used to playing
Piggy, in the middle was
a lonely place; my shouts
fuelled your enjoyment,
combining sadism with flirtation –
a dysfunctional, erotic
marriage.
As King, you would have
what you wanted and
you took it easily, having no
frontline death to mastermind.
My attention, given out
of duty and deference,
centred on you and you
wallowed in it leisurely – arrogant?
An old hand at
childhood games I'd never played,
proximity had
an immoral effect on
me as I accidentally, then purposefully, then uncaringly
confused the
objet trouvé.
A heart? A hand?
The pronoun meant more.
I observed you indiscreetly
in the face of your
unwitting
seriousness.
It was not matters of
government nor academia
that so weighted your mind – me, perhaps?
A thought I entertain, though
it is grounded
less in truth than possibility.
I triumphed, though victory tasted
more of concession
than sweetness, and the
only dignity was in hasty, hostile retreat,
which earned me genuine remorse
and a key-ring phallus.
Shedding titanium shell for
wise, wise man’s skin in
a reversed exchange -
rightly or wrongly,
I renounce citizenship for
subjection.
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