Lament for Mr Hyde
I fold, I tug, then find myself
torn clean out of the picture. Can you tell the silhouette
from the man, the (be)fore from the back(ground and what
is under it). No, we were never any good
at discriminating one hell from another. A hell’s a hell and still
we suffer. Or I do. Ed(ward), a word, a name;
and Jane corrects my introduction
isn’t mine, nor is Travis, and your name fits you like a suit on a duck.
Mr Hyde, You choose what to display. I wish I had your vanity.
The damned sleep surprisingly well.
Pain is rife with connotation; and who isn’t familiar with that?
I like violence because it’s guileless, because
it means what it means so let’s act frank.
All the Gods’ work amounts to little more than mischief.
Dissect miracle: the occasional hole in the hand, or a stone
that weeps, or a face stained wall (minor crimes, after all
is said and done). Ed, I know why you drink. I drink too, to
remember; and sober,
no one I’ve lost seems to matter very much.
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