Cupid III

Now this is getting silly. Cupid,
if you are reading this, what the fuck?
You seem set on making anew
a weird and lecher homunculus.
My glance-misunderstanding device
extends its repertoire of wrong moves.
Never able to make the right start
sat, still and buzzing with nothingness
mulling the ancient concept of chance.

Small and naked tormentor with barbs
of vague and undisclosed ideas
that, unlodged, send the guts sprawling out;
fire shot after shot into my head
Bang bang bang and I can never move.
This time I was just trying to read.
The flight was close range. I had no chance.
In the bookshop café you leant out
from behind a fake pot plant and fired.

Her eyes caught mine for a bright moment
I couldn’t breathe I thought this was it.
Then the poison hit. I couldn’t stand.
A shiver of lacks that drained inwards.
Stalling, the child burns and falls seaward.
Lessons learned and unlearned, still I dream
Of the conversation of bodies.
Still, in her blue eyes I sat and shook
and found some half-lost moment of peace.

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