This pretentious City is not
my home.
And yours is not the vulva I
was meant to plough.
Let these be the last of my
illusions to be dispelled.
Let them be the last of my growing
pains.
I am a man now. A man.
It certainly did take a long time
for me to get here.
But I am here now -
having finally shed away
my adolescence
at the
ripe age of thirty-three.
(a not too unusual
case
by our standards)
I am here.
I am cold.
I am mature.
I am…dead.
Dead.
(Your phantoms cannot give
me warmth, anymore.
Just as my dreams can no longer
give me hope.
You,
the City and you,
have taught me how to hate myself so well…
I can no longer court hope.
I can no longer find or understand it.
Faced on its own terms,
Reality has proven quite
the
unruly
mistress.
It has been
murderous even, murderous.
It killed
hope.
And laughed in
the face of r e s u r r e c t i
o n. -
After all,
that is supposed to be the essence of
its mercy,
or so I am
sometimes told.)
Now,
someone like me,
someone foolish enough,
usually,
to believe in humanity,
and love,
real love,
would normally feel
free
even when caught
in the
intricate tapestry
of Your promises
and
lies.
(And how often You promise.
And how often You lie.)
So why does Your love
enslave me so?
What sort of Viagric essence do You
exude?
What sort of impotence within me
is
crying
simply for the opportunity
to
die
in You? –
So that I find myself so powerless,
so absolutely powerless,
in the face of You,
in the face of my love-lust
for You.
Seldom do love and lust thus
intertwine,
but for me, in Your
case, they did,
they do.
Can You see now the source
of my depression? –
There are still too many pale faces
around,
too many putrefying souls
that I yearned to save
from the world,
from
themselves,
from me.
But I couldn’t even try…
As a messiah,
I proved to be a colossal failure, I am
afraid.
I needed much more salvation than I
had to give.
I needed to be saved myself.
I needed you by my side.
I needed to face the City, and win.
I simply needed too many things.
Too
many
things.
I was the Awaiting Messiah.
The
A
w
a
i
t
i
n
g
Messiah.
Can You comprehend now the
nature of my depression? -
I cannot even save myself,
not to mention You, or anybody else,
from this sectarian quagmire we
were b o r n in……to.
Can You digest now, or
ever, the fruits of my depression?
Can You afford to?
Can You?
Can You?
April 1999