Of course it's a contradiction

"So, maybe this is what love reduces us to; booze...and bonfires?" - Katie (Sarah Parish), from "Mistresses", ep 5.

I've been thinking about love, lately. In a Woody Allen-kind of way. Because it's an ever-relevant, ever-occupying subject, because my mind keeps straying constantly, off required tracks and onto sidings, loose ends, and because that is exactly what films tend to do to me, and why I love them; why they have me captivated. They distract me, and they provoke furter contempation, and they get me absorbed. If also cornered, sometimes, in the myriad that is my mind. Which is where I am, right now; fascinated by the complications of loving, that is the topic of love's being complicated and how me make it so; and I keep seeing connections, reflections, similarities, new issues - trailing trains of thoughts, everywhere. Dance around a bit, like you do, attempt to fool myself, and understand all that I cannot. Then, I end up in a destructive triangle of Woody, worries and own shortcomings. I am pensive, and I am equipped with a fanciful mindset. I try to focus on my subject in class, which unfortunately involves a certain focus on Heathcliff; mysterious madman and maniacal loverboy of "Wuthering Heighs"; and there you have it. I try watching television, which is all about "Mistresses" and Sarah Parish's heartbreak and relationship anguish, in general, and there you go again. Followed by "Sex & the City", which leaves no questions unaccounted for, yet the more uncleared. And last, I tried editing a poem draft, which was - originally - about arrogant bosses with flushed cheekbones and heavy-weighed opinions, then it seemed to transform itself into this; the following; which is something entirely different, and a lot more...sore.

"(Com)parables"
By Scaramouche, th Po(t)et, who finds believing in the nature of succesful love increasingly difficult. But refuses to give up, ever. That is not in the nature of me. Like Woody Allen would have said, and actually he did - well, in all terms of technicality, he wrote; "Maria Elena used to say, that only unfulfilled love can be romantic". Word, Woody.

side to side, your cheekbones
flushing, flapping, like a fan
we speak, we spoke, of nothing
and you smile, for nothing
we're leaving with a nod, no more

step by step, you're promenading
straddle, stutter, like a fox
we greet, we grate, as though it's nothing
you lie, and it means nothing
we're left now with a nod, no further

stop and stop, you're changeless
losing, looking, through the fall
we furl, we followed, nothing,
so replying, turn the heel,
the different cheek, but no
we take the final leave and kneel, nonesuch

we never bother
never save the moment
or each other

**
when I step into your dark corners
I see but one side of your marble skin
and the dimmed and soft, evasive dimples
the way the fabric of your clothes ruffle
around you, the silky creases, the way
you tug on your shirt and you don't notice

when I stalk, behind those dark corners
seeing but one side of your misleading pose
and the drained and straightened features
the way you are impregnable to velvet
and never slip into caress again, the way
I used to try on your shirts and wink

and you would peak, you'd hold me in your gaze
coming out of every shadowy landscape
you'd find me find my place with you,
and I would always know, and now I don't
I cannot tell my path about these dark corners,
within your world, and you have bent away
against another pillar, offering me your back
but not, and not again, to lean on

(for katie & sam, and hari, siobhan & dominic,
who inspired me)