Catherine Heath
May 2020
When realities collide,
We feel like we are being torn apart––
Multiple worlds
Competing for dominance;
A fight to the death
(Where no one wins).
You thought you’d met a goddess,
But she was an ordinary girl,
Disguised by cigarette smoke;
Sailor Jerry’s rum
Spilling over the table
(Marked with rude words
And signatures).
She can be found at parties,
Laughing,
Drinking,
Smoking––
Giggling with her friends,
Giving men the runaround,
Searching for experience,
Life,
And art.
It’s hard to hold onto a goddess:
Ephemeral,
Furious,
Mystical.
Much better to have
A girl who loves you;
Who will do anything for you––
Stays faithful,
And true.
I could not get to you;
(Hidden in the dusty tomes
Of angry scholars,
Forsaken by God,
And taking it out
On children
And zealots.)
We have a lot,
Really––
The freedom to cry,
To disagree,
To be flagrantly heterosexual,
Uninterested in mirrors,
But entranced by the other
(The impenetrable
Mystery
Of life itself.)
There is violence
In claiming a body
That fits perfectly with your own
(And we are thrown
By smouldering glances,
Threatening harm,
Or heaven?).
We don’t know,
And so we go
To all these parties,
Sampling a substance or two––
No substitute
For me, or you.
Learning from our mistakes,
And the people who are fakes––
We are the eye of the storm,
Furiously rolling cigarettes,
And looking on
With scorn.
We know our friends––
They are the madmen,
Taking photos,
Falling asleep with cooked chicken,
Giving dramatic readings,
Embracing other men,
And friends with all the women.
We are the Bloomsbury Group––
(Life’s pirate crew)––
Men and women,
Side by side,
Until the day we die.
Anything else is just sterility––
A living death,
Composed of books, and cats,
And tea.
We drink tea together;
Snacking on cakes,
And laughing at those who are fakes,
Knowing all the while,
That we make each other smile,
As we discuss the meaning of life,
Over cakes,
And tea.
Credit: Photo by Carli Jeen on Unsplash
