The Recidivist

Our confusion is what makes the world interesting
and no matter how brilliantly
incoherent you are, I'm not interested anymore.
 
There's no blur between haunted and hunted, 
no discussion about purity 
and degradation when you're predictable
 
as history repeats conflicting lies. I'd like you 
to tell me how it feels 
to be empty of concept and time
 
but that's a waste because I didn't understand
the criminal mind, 
intimidation, the threats until after you finally left.
 
I remember you said you'd never be with a woman
again, a blatant conflict 
from what I saw today. Perhaps everything
 
you say is the same as pychopathic manipulation
like the time you mentioned
if our marriage ever ended you'd disappear with drugs 
 
and alcoholic drinks but that would be identical
to saying you'd refuse to think.
How strange. Thinking has never been an aspect
 
you could honestly claim. There was no
surprise when I saw you walking hand in hand.
All I could do was open my mouth
 
and laugh so loud I'm still laughing now.

The Book of Scorpio

You dressed
like any black winter's night
 
and escaped
before I had time to tell you
 
how much I hate you.
It may be true the sea laps shattered
 
peace with salt
stinging and an undefined attitude
 
when you promised
you wouldn't wear black
 
without the pride of an artist.
The effect
 
was more precious than revenge.
You phoned
 
to say you
wanted me back and all you got
 
was explosive
sounds of silence
 
frozen
deep in scorpionic sea.