∵
Trekking off to Camden
with marriage on your
mind. I'm sitting here, I'm thinking
that I wish I'd had more time,
stinking words that verse themselves
in esoteric rhymes.
You fucked my mind,
I verbbed your noun, you spoke
the words, all squares were round,
all fights absurd, surreal, the kind
of deal Salvador Dali would
make worlds out of,
calling it a masterpeice,
a twisted shout to
someone long gone but not
yet deceased, a
blistered shot of
a drink settling inside my
liver. I deliver no messages,
I write few letters,
I handle no packages. I'm caged,
unfettered, enraged, enbittered,
rearranged shapeless, nearly nameless,
obviously shameless as I write
the real problem and the reality
I fight - you said it took you
til you were seventeen
for you to realize you weren't
white - your privilege
is that of one who passes,
and me, I can't even do that
with classes - you'd have to
wear glasses to see what I see.
I see all of it, and I blame only
me. There was once a time
when we were the three,
the triad, the trike, but
I picked a fight and you guys
bought an entirely
brand-new bike. I guess
my problem
is I still
like you, I'd like to
figure out where I stand
with you. I understand
your true intentions
are long overdue,
this is something I
stole from you and you have to
do the thing you want to do.
You love him and I know it and
so you and me are through.
Maybe it could have lasted
but after I lambasted
every aspect
of your personality
in a fight I arranged only
so I wouldn't miss you,
I couldn't kiss you,
but I will not dis you. I write this to
solve a problem
that is only in my head.
You know it, I know it,
our love is really dead.
-- i.p. ebert, july 2010
with marriage on your
mind. I'm sitting here, I'm thinking
that I wish I'd had more time,
stinking words that verse themselves
in esoteric rhymes.
You fucked my mind,
I verbbed your noun, you spoke
the words, all squares were round,
all fights absurd, surreal, the kind
of deal Salvador Dali would
make worlds out of,
calling it a masterpeice,
a twisted shout to
someone long gone but not
yet deceased, a
blistered shot of
a drink settling inside my
liver. I deliver no messages,
I write few letters,
I handle no packages. I'm caged,
unfettered, enraged, enbittered,
rearranged shapeless, nearly nameless,
obviously shameless as I write
the real problem and the reality
I fight - you said it took you
til you were seventeen
for you to realize you weren't
white - your privilege
is that of one who passes,
and me, I can't even do that
with classes - you'd have to
wear glasses to see what I see.
I see all of it, and I blame only
me. There was once a time
when we were the three,
the triad, the trike, but
I picked a fight and you guys
bought an entirely
brand-new bike. I guess
my problem
is I still
like you, I'd like to
figure out where I stand
with you. I understand
your true intentions
are long overdue,
this is something I
stole from you and you have to
do the thing you want to do.
You love him and I know it and
so you and me are through.
Maybe it could have lasted
but after I lambasted
every aspect
of your personality
in a fight I arranged only
so I wouldn't miss you,
I couldn't kiss you,
but I will not dis you. I write this to
solve a problem
that is only in my head.
You know it, I know it,
our love is really dead.
-- i.p. ebert, july 2010