The Pathology Of Love

1. 

He is psychopath. 

He wants her love truly madly deeply
delights in strata of pain she inflicts… 
her brown eyes, twinkling cesspools,
her orgasms quickly bought, 
a supermarket of vengeful menstruation.  

She is angel to his masochism.  
Shit on me he begs, 
but she will not stoop to his pleading, 
making his humiliation 
so much more poignant.

	
 
2. 

4am
she speaks into his answer-machine, 
leaves cryptic messages, suggestions of love

hints that she might give over a small slice of herself 
for his safe-keeping.

Her voice burrows, like a parasite,
into his slow panicked waking.  

She rings off with psychic alacrity 
and will not respond 
to his constant ring-back requests.

Oh the sweet agonies of too much love!  
He is besotted with the idea 
that he might never sleep again.

Love is an angel, bottled in frosted glass.  

He heaps presents upon her, 
suffused with television tenderness.

She bins everything he brings,
laughing (with lilting, intoxicating voice)
she informs him... bringing him 
to a violent climax of delicious agony:
he could not be more humiliated
were he to walk down Sauchiehall Street
saturated in stale semen.


 
3. 

She is sociopath.

She perverts his dreams with 4am panicked calls, 
feeling the insecure threads of her treading water-ness. 

Her other lover has cut away, revved up outboard escape and she is overboard and panicking, 
needing to be reassured… 
but the fucking phone is not not not doing her command, 
so she throws it out the amphetamine tripwired window 
into the Camberwell neon darkness 
to cacophonic chords 
of trip hop jungle ragga.  

Water will not balm her, 
nor the arms of an adoring-someone calm her.  

She cannot sleep for the chemical shite 
in the sewage pipes of her veins.

She contemplates razorblades and all sorts,
while listening to Bjork,
the CD on a constant loop of repeat
until dawn swallows
the last of the night.


 
4. 

He is idiolect.

The semantics of masturbation 
lulling him to sleep.  

Little fucking scrubber he thinks, 
exhilarated by the illusion 
of pornographic mastery:  
he is an idiot slave.  

He slathers like a lobotomised hound, 
into the grey underworld of nothing.  

Love hath his hands fetter bound.


 
5. 

Light is not enlightenment.

Richard & Judy cunt-manipulate her into placidity:
life becomes... just so... 
a Coronation Street corona of smiling complaisance; 
all problems reduced to a lack,
filled by product 
and prozak.

And then she is crashed out 
on the aquamarine velour-covered settee; 
dreaming of wedding cakes, blushing boys,
a universe collapsing in simplicity.

Then she comes upon
the well at the end of the world
where the sweetest, most palliative waters are drawn,
but if stolen
shall surely put out 
the fires of heaven.