Where is the man
whose clothes these are?
‘You’re him,’ you say,
but these don’t fit.
‘Because you’re fat,’ you say.
‘What have you been doing, or
for exercise, not doing?
You’ve spent ten years
using food to compensate
for your many failures.’
It doesn't make me feel good,
your speaking like that.
You don't know much
about the dynamics of my life.
We’ve not discussed
money, kids, my work,
the poor performance of the Eels,
relatives I could do without.
Anyway, who are you?
‘I’m your alter ego.
I am the right
side of your brain.’
So bloody much, I think,
for the corpus callosum
that is supposed to unite us.
‘It degenerates with age,’
you tell me smiling
in that superior way
I’m coming to loathe.
No comments:
Post a Comment