At the Trocadero

You, dream boy, are just that.
You could never be more.
Not when the urchin and his violin,
Plucks at my heart and secrets.

I sit in beauty,
Laden in my mind’s eye.
Not a seat on the street.
Not with you at my side.


Love, a most spectacular mess

Might I consider love a most spectacular mess?

I am keen to point out that I am a romantic, though not hopeless. I do at times consider the practicalities. I shield my mind from irrelevance, yet I am in lust for the possibilities, the passion that could be.

I write love; romantic love, dramatic love, gentle love. Might I yearn for this fictional tumble in my own life? Or have I forbidden myself from indulging in that self-serving immersion and emotional gluttony?

I despise waste. Maybe that has a bearing here? Oh, but it is so romantic! So lovely to be in love with the notion, just a notion of love!

May I bow out? I fear that I have not made a convincing argument for why I must embrace the ideals and practicalities of hunting down a good mate.

What a mess, I muse. What a fantastically lovely mess!

Thank you, Sir.

I suppose you think I need rescuing. That I am like a bird in a cage, in need of assistance. Let me disabuse you.

I am not so fragile. I am not inclined to dramatics or hysterics, like some females I know. I do not bemoan my existence, falling to my knees to beggar myself before the Almighty, wailing “Why me?” like a confused samaritan. My tendencies are not such.

Instead, I am determined. I am cold and I am heartless. What you feel is pity, and I feel no particular emotions about your condescension.

Please, refrain. Direct your energies and affaires of a more delicate nature to a more worthy corner. I do not sympathise, for indeed I cannot.

Thank you, sir, for your consideration. I am most heartened.

You are not my love

I see you looking at me.

Your gaze, lingering.

Watching me.

Wanting me.


But I am not yours.

I promised you nothing.

I owe you dust.

You should see that.


My eyes, they animate.

I smile, I buzz.

It is not our secret language.

These are not stolen glances.


For I am skittish.

I am romantic.

Locked in place, in lieu of constant release.

And you still do not wield the key

My dear lady

My dear lady.

Forgive me for being so forward but I must speak. I have observed, for some time now, that you seem troubled. I have taken it upon myself to offer you words of comfort, if I may be so presumptuous. You place far too much stock in the ramblings of others of your sex. It is unnecessary. Although I may not suggest that you disobey your parent, I must caution you to listen with all your faculties intact. Said parent knows you well, and will seek to get her point across by possibly upsetting you, thereby goading you into words that you had no intention of uttering unprovoked.

Might I make a guess as to the reason of your unease? You might feel that the days pass by rapidly. Far more than you might have anticipated. Maybe you worry that you lose a certain chance by waiting?

Please, my lady. This you must put from your mind. There is a case to be made for solitary maneuvering. Just plain getting on with it. You listen too closely to the ramblings of other females who, I might say, do not know their own mind. You have a fine one, dear lady, a superb insight into the nature of the beast. Forgive my crassness.

I beg of you. Consider more carefully, and do not fret overmuch. You are unlike your tormentors, and you must bend only as the wind sways you.


I’m dark,

So you must be light.


I scream,

So you must be calm.


I’m a bon bon,

So you must be a jelly.


I laugh,

So you must be attentive.


I’m trapped,

So you must be free.


I’m tight,

So you must be flexible.


I’m sober,

So you must be gay.


I’m fleeting,

So you must be constant.


I like you,

So you must love me.