Tea from England and cigarettes from Ceylon, pale as benighted venereal April, all because
you threaten never to call but then you do. The curling spectre of Hello-and-Forgiveness
is sometimes too much. On her knees, even Guinevere isn’t much fun.
More or less a dry, imagined paradise, Love-then couldn’t hold my attention, its fatal
inequities grooved with untraceable aches and paints, a streak of apocalypse blowing
blue across my indecisive moaning exit. I wouldn’t settle, I wanted champagne. Diseased
Conviction, when it goes, leaves a mark not to be mentioned, cuddled, or frayed. Instead,
it’s very simple: the kind of joy you can take for granted, the cool unamendable crack
from which slip prophecy and floodlights, rich reasons for why you and not somebody else,
why bloom and not shake the blue door of counter-proposals, pills, pins. To be only
one thing is to be ready — the cheapest plastic flags on their little sticks
never go to half-mast.