I have nowhere to go, not my sister’s, And my arms are thin, look, so thin.
Venus, is that you now, can we dare give up on you?
When you totter by and your breathing’s bad, You think you won’t go in for coffee, And don’t know what you’d do without TV And wonder why girls now always show their chests, We must hang on and hang on To see one more day of us, One more increment to our lives If we can love each other.
Now Apollo, we’ve not looked at you, Which of course we can’t and thus does your gaze Make light the perfect metaphor.
Sunny Apollo, I don’t have your eye for stitching, style or shade. I rose once to wedding-gloves of yellow kid But I am no handsome l’homme aux gants. You however were only ever once discomfited, So the story goes, and by your prick of course, Before reason, and you’ve long been above all that. You have no dread of error, no more fear Of losing an argument than losing a girl. The white kine sponged down for you, Trusting heifers lowing upwards to your brow Are brought to their knees by the spreading springs Mystified, noses drizzling blood, the finest voices, Maidens, anointed worshippers.
JEFFREY WAINWRIGHT | 82