Inkotica

I wait for the bus in a strange town
And wonder with a nervous edge if
the driver will understand what I am saying
when I ask ‘how much is the fare?’.

They don’t like outsiders here,
and they like odd accents even less.

This town, caught up in its antiquity,
could be mistaken for a black hole.
It’s in a timewarp you see, and neatly
cocooned by its people.

They don’t like outsiders here,
and they like odd accents even less.

The bus arrives and opens its doors
threatening to swallow the queueing people whole.
I climb on board, and pronounce my destination as best I can.
But it’s no good, he knows I’m a stranger to this place.

They don’t like outsiders here,
and they like odd accents even less.

The driver mutters something under his breath.
My ears fail to catch his words, and I ask him to repeat them.
He throws me a dark look and mutters again.
I pay my fair and take a seat with the rest of the crowd.

They don’t like strangers here,
but I couldn’t give a damn about that.

My mother was proud of her whites. I was too.
You could see the glint in her eye when friends of mine
would comment on how brilliantly white my socks were.

Their socks always looked a greyish off-white colour.
You could tell they thought that my socks were
a sign of a good caring mother, as though they’d been cheated
’cause their mothers couldn’t give them white socks.

My mother didn’t have an easy life.
Her childhood was hard, far harder than mine.
Her mother was poor, alone and worked two jobs
while taking care of four kids and a cranky mother.

My grandfather preferred drinking to taking care of the kids.
Even tried to drown one of them once
while in a drunken stupor.

My aunt used to say that the only things she remembered
about my grandfather were hate and alcohol.
Yet despite all this and more besides, they survived.
They had spirit (in the non alcoholic sense).

My mother was unlucky in love too.
Two marriages and neither one really appreciated her,
despite the whiteness of her whites.

They failed to see the one thing that mattered you see.
They didn’t look beyond the whiteness of our socks,
or the glow of the crisp white cotton sheets
hanging on the washing line on Sundays.

They didn’t see the whiteness of her soul.
That is what truly mattered.

When I see you, who were so wise and cool,
Gazing with silly sickness on that fool
You’ve given your love to, your adoring hands
Touch his so intimately that each understands,
I know, most hidden things; and when I know
Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow
Of his red lips, and that the empty grace
Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face,
Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love,
That you have given him every touch and move,
Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life,
– Oh! then I know I’m waiting, lover-wife,
For the great time when love is at a close,
And all its fruit’s to watch the thickening nose
And sweaty neck and dulling face and eye,
That are yours, and you, most surely, till you die!
Day after day you’ll sit with him and note
The greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat;
As prettiness turns to pomp, and strength to fat,
And love, love, love to habit!

And after that,
When all that’s fine in man is at an end,
And you, that loved young life and clean, must tend
A foul sick fumbling dribbling body and old,
When his rare lips hang flabby and can’t hold
Slobber, and you’re enduring that worst thing,
Senility’s queasy furtive love-making,
And searching those dear eyes for human meaning,
Propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning
A scrap that life’s flung by, and love’s forgotten, –
Then you’ll be tired; and passion dead and rotten;
And he’ll be dirty, dirty!

O lithe and free
And lightfoot, that the poor heart cries to see,
That’s how I’ll see your man and you! –

But you
– Oh, when THAT time comes, you’ll be dirty too!

- Rupert Brooke, 1887-1915

Do you see the look in my eyes?
The stark glassy stare
through which I project
my loathing for you?

Do you see how my love
turned to dust before you?
How my soul vanished
into your void?

You made me this way
You tore my heart to pieces
until every sinew became detached,
broken and lifeless.

You stole my spirit.
Now I am mere machine,
my emotions as mechanical
as my body.

You made me this way.

I feel reality slip away from me in times like these. I slink away from you into the darkness of my psyche, your love doesn’t touch me there.

When I think of how I’ve acted, I’m ashamed. Ashamed that despite everything, you still love me. How can you still love me when I am the way I am? You tell me you always will, but rather than believe the sincerity of that statement my mind prefers to think that you’re merely comfortable with me. That we’ve shared our lives for so long now you can’t let go for fear of never finding that comfort again.

Bitterness bites my soul and the fear of receiving answers I don’t want to hear keeps my mind closed to you. It’s not that I don’t want you in there, but I get anxious that you’ll never get close to me because of my own paranoia. I’ve encapsulated myself in guilt that my heart tells me I shouldn’t feel but my head tells me otherwise.

I want to escape from this self-imprisonment, but I don’t know how.

I don’t know how…