Icebergs calve in Antarctica as my titanic love carves on,
Perhaps destined to die beneath the Southern Cross,
But trusting to make it to God’s embrace
Though far from winning the human race,
As my keel scours the ocean bed
Releasing phytoplankton from my duvet
And S.O.S is all that we can say
As the felonious last Trump is ferried away.
Few things are sadder than a single glove
lost by a stranger who was once right here,
though surely not a stranger lost to love.
Sometimes you see them on a rail, that’s queer,
left there for their reciprocating pair.
Yesterday I felt okay, today I’m feeling rather frail.
Went out on the lash last night and stayed up very late
watching The Singing Detective by Dennis Potter,
a televisual feast, but now I’m suffering for his art.
But my psoriatic arthropody is not a patch on his.
Health is a chimaera, so it doesn’t pay to tweak its tail.
Now I’m drinking ginger wine and wondering
whether to sing for supper or accept my liquid fate.
The World Cup is in Qatar and I should practice my guitar,
but I’m lazy, somewhat hazy, yet I hope quite far from crazy.
Just feel like chillin’ on a grey and wintry day.
It’s the 1st of December and the Christmas carols play
pour encourager les shoppers as the retailers pray.
Matei meets me in the middle
of sentences born of silence,
of reflection, of diseased riddles
and eviscerating verbal violence.
We speak of death and archetypes,
of alchemy and the divine,
of love grown sickly and ripe,
no longer sweet and so sublime.
Confined within our fifty minutes
we pirouette through topics
and nothing seems to be off-limits,
excepting a familiar suffix.
Psychotherapy is like a room
half-glimpsed through an open womb.