Why I'd Like to Weep

I realise now that what I want
is not a ball of gold,
the literal and symbolic sceptre.

It's not a man, either,
though one to share the darkness of the night
would be a gift as yet unmade.

It is, rather, to drown
in absolute beauty,
wracked with sobs before Titian...

to strangle and choke
on finest caviar,
the buffets of the soul and sense.

Grown in filth
and raised in violence,
the unthinking brutality
of uncompleted minds
and withered hearts,
I'd like the little deaths to come
not from a father's careless words,
his fist, his hate,
his dinner plate smashed on
my brother's head...
a mother's palm
across my face, the back of my head,
her anger beating down the door,
her seeking hands and sickening eyes...

but Caravaggio instead.
And African potters,
and exotic dancers,
and chefs and Jane Austen and God.