The woman that I love? She isn’t you
Although she has your dark curls in my head.
When people read the hurt words that I’ve said
And call you cruel, tell them it isn’t true
that you said some harsh crass unfeeling thing
It wasn’t you, it was that bitch my muse.
I don’t have to be sad, to sing the blues.
Nor be in love, exactly, when I sing
Love unrequited, love on which I’ll pass –
a useful fiction. It is poetry
that gets me wet. Be flattered when I lie,
imply it’s you. Your cheekbones and firm arse
win you reward that’s better than a kiss
Deathless with Laura, Lesbia, Beatrice.