A Sapphire

The nights are empty and the days are stark;
There isn’t any truth to tell, or hope
To share, no penny for my thoughts, no scope
For love to tempt me, victories to mark,
And Jenny didn’t kiss me in the dark.
Try veni, vidi, vici, and I grope
Towards my many losses. Bring the rope —
No grace, no envy, neither bite nor bark.

Each worthless moment passes, made of steam:
One day I was the happiest of men,
Together with you in a lonely glen
Too vast to measure, by a lovely stream,
A sapphire. But it must have been a dream —
All gone now. Yes, my life was better then.

I Don’t Want Vengeance

I don’t want vengeance, I just want him dead.
I only want the world to be a place
Where decent people have a decent space
To live their own lives and to earn their bread,
And make sure all the starving poor are fed.
Somebody ought to look him in the face,
Insisting on the truth, his fall from grace:
I don’t want vengeance. That’s not what I said.

I’ve been a calming presence with my friends
Until this afternoon. My eyes rolled back
So far into my head, the sky turned black
And I decided I should make amends.
I tell you, vengeance won’t pay dividends
So that’s not what I want. You’ve gone off track.

A Tourist

This sea’s not bad. I have pas mal de mer,
A good-enough emotion, at my core.
I used to care a lot. Not any more:
Most of the time it hurts too much to care.
I’m just a tourist, tramping here and there,
Living on old hopes, calling from the door,
“What do you want that awful tchatchke for?”
Feelings are meaningless. Love is a snare.

I’m slipping through the world, travelling light,
Don’t need protection from the hail and rain
Because the water doesn’t leave a stain.
Nightmares? Headaches? I’ve given up the fight.
Contempt is all that lets me sleep at night,
Braced by twin crowns: disinterest and disdain.

For the New Year: The Song Antipathetic

To Hell with all thy feckless holidays!
First Valentine’s Day, then spring bringeth Easter
With chocolate bunnies and those Passion Plays
That knock thee down, flat on thy mental kiester.
After that, Bastille Day brings no cake
In spite of Marie Antoinette, our sprite,
And empty Labour Day, for heaven's sake!
All meaningless, unhappy, and so trite.
For thus we celebrate thy autumn’s harvest:
Get thee a pumpkin, let the apples dry,
And heed the song of turkeys that thou carvest,
“Gobble, gobble, sweet potato pie.”
Then Christmas! Stop, please ponder, and just stop.
I’ve had enough of all this festive slop.