The Bassist
Vacuous jewel in my crown of thorns,
Razor blade in my heart,
You torment me no more gently with the passing of time
The wounds you inflicted still bleed,
The pain is still as sharp as a thousand knives,
And as for you in your own divine right -
You are still my weakness, still my darkest regret,
My most powerful and secret longing...
You are the ghost my fingers grasp at in the depths of night,
You are the mocha-enamelled muse
And yet also the slaughterer of love,
And the arbitrator of my impotence;
A vainglorious ornament you sit on my heart’s dusty mantel,
Preening your curls of raven silk, pretending to depth you do not have
The melodic weaver of shattered dreams, sparkling sadly
In their state of damned purity, you have some merit;
You have some worth, some purpose, as a caged bird does –
To provide light relief for weary eyes;
To teach anaesthetised hearts to feel desire again...
But etched in your chocolate flesh is a warning label,
A caution to unwary souls like mine who have no restraint
No buffer against the drowning waves of sweet and inconsolable love...
For one glimpse of you, of your dusky perfection –
Of your fathomless wishing-well eyes -
And all hope is gone for good,
All chance of a pain-free life, vanished, melted into your euphoric doom
You are the death knell to joy, the rose and its poisoned thorn,
And I will bear the scars of your deft fingers forevermore –
Right here, on my heart, where it hurts the most;
And where they may never be healed
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