deepundergroundpoetry.com
1965
1
The ‘60s postmark rots away
and I’m left in the latter day
so many years distant from you.
The pain of love was one I didn’t feel
before I turned thirty,
and happened to be walking home
from office work one day.
I wrote sports and you drove cars
outside the town’s hotspot.
Deemed too ugly for anyone’s girl
to be swept off her feet -
missing teeth, a bulbous brow,
and gaze forever glum -
the studs all felt secure,
pulling up beside
the valet in his cheap red coat.
But even if you were handsome
you couldn’t have returned a girl’s
least amorous advance.
I saw that, watching you.
Sometimes we know each other’s pain
without need of the thinking brain,
and also I’d seen you before
lingering outside the door
of a hidden bar.
2
We shared cigarettes and spoke
the secret language of the freak.
I gave you hotel money and said
to look out from the bar.
Soon enough I heard the knock, like lead
tipping a cowboy’s boot and kicked
against a car.
As quickly as men flee
you’d pushed your way in me
and so I thought I’d been murdered
until that rush of feeling came
and swept me like rich man’s cocaine
towards a bright-lit paradise.
I like to think I taught you, after that,
how urges can be met
with compassion. How men can treat
each other with kindness, and heat
a potent love outside the vaunted norm.
I told you you were beautiful
and that your dreams
were worthy of respect. You cried,
and then laughed when I didn’t laugh
at you, “for crying like a girl.”
3
It’s now gone fifty years and that old lie, that hate fell down to hell from heaven
back in nineteen sixty-seven,
still leaves me bitter as the lemons
growing on my tree.
What of nineteen sixty-five
when I last saw you, just alive,
attended by two parents who
had seen this day ten years away,
and got my autograph when I
reported that I’d seen you at
the various home games, and that
I’d mention you in my next article...
4
The 60s postmark rots away
but I can still read what’s inside,
simple and crude and capitalised,
each letter written as
if with flashing red lightbulbs.
I LUV U N HOAP I CAN SEE U AGEN.
Not since nineteen sixty-five
have I seen you or me alive,
nor has there been a perfect day
since I last shared a cigarette
with my ugly, and beautiful valet.
The ‘60s postmark rots away
and I’m left in the latter day
so many years distant from you.
The pain of love was one I didn’t feel
before I turned thirty,
and happened to be walking home
from office work one day.
I wrote sports and you drove cars
outside the town’s hotspot.
Deemed too ugly for anyone’s girl
to be swept off her feet -
missing teeth, a bulbous brow,
and gaze forever glum -
the studs all felt secure,
pulling up beside
the valet in his cheap red coat.
But even if you were handsome
you couldn’t have returned a girl’s
least amorous advance.
I saw that, watching you.
Sometimes we know each other’s pain
without need of the thinking brain,
and also I’d seen you before
lingering outside the door
of a hidden bar.
2
We shared cigarettes and spoke
the secret language of the freak.
I gave you hotel money and said
to look out from the bar.
Soon enough I heard the knock, like lead
tipping a cowboy’s boot and kicked
against a car.
As quickly as men flee
you’d pushed your way in me
and so I thought I’d been murdered
until that rush of feeling came
and swept me like rich man’s cocaine
towards a bright-lit paradise.
I like to think I taught you, after that,
how urges can be met
with compassion. How men can treat
each other with kindness, and heat
a potent love outside the vaunted norm.
I told you you were beautiful
and that your dreams
were worthy of respect. You cried,
and then laughed when I didn’t laugh
at you, “for crying like a girl.”
3
It’s now gone fifty years and that old lie, that hate fell down to hell from heaven
back in nineteen sixty-seven,
still leaves me bitter as the lemons
growing on my tree.
What of nineteen sixty-five
when I last saw you, just alive,
attended by two parents who
had seen this day ten years away,
and got my autograph when I
reported that I’d seen you at
the various home games, and that
I’d mention you in my next article...
4
The 60s postmark rots away
but I can still read what’s inside,
simple and crude and capitalised,
each letter written as
if with flashing red lightbulbs.
I LUV U N HOAP I CAN SEE U AGEN.
Not since nineteen sixty-five
have I seen you or me alive,
nor has there been a perfect day
since I last shared a cigarette
with my ugly, and beautiful valet.
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