I shall become, such as I am,
By ‘identifying’ as that which I am not.
I shall become something external,
Ready made, off the shelf,
A prêt à porter self
A collection of stereotypes, eternal,
For I shall attempt to cram
Every hackneyed idea about this other creature
Into the new version of me,
Every cliché will feature
While anything unique will rot,
And ALL I shall be, will be that which you can see.
Had I been into boys, you’d have been proud,
No pouring of contempt, or scorn,
My fantasies of being spanked,
And the Sadomasochistic porn
With, to, about which I have wanked,
Would not have cast a cloud.
I have painted them Georgian green,
The shelves and doors and back
Of the cabinet piano, now a secretaire.
A beautiful 18th century shade.
Of course there were no doors, before, only a screen
Of pleated silk, edged with braid
But that is long gone, now the doors are open wide,
Revealing the stringless, dull inside,
And I have placed upon the shelves objet d’art,
A cut glass vase positioned as to hide its crack,
Some Wedgewood items and a stoneware jar,
An old glass bottle, Napkin rings, a pair,
A Christening cup, a yew wood chamber stick,
A burr wood box, elevated on a brick,
Old tat really, nothing very rare.
And now I feel I need a longcase clock,
Pagoda topped, Chinoisserie, gold and black
To complete the junk shop scene.
So now I am returned to longing and searching,
No longer fulfilled and serene.
