I’m still in shock that,
of all my lovers, you –
honest to the core – were
hard to please. Made me feel less
than those you said you’d deceived.
I gave my all, I never put you out
Yet you feigned you were on
when really you were out, on that
desire to claim, on that will to bed,
your obvious needs much more than
I could bring. And yet friends ask of you: is he
the man he always was?
Or is he fumbling and stumbling?
Pretending through his down that he’s up?
As you tread from day to night-time gap, the
lack of sex and intimacy trap, the breathless
lull that leaves you stuck: you climb the stair
to meet him there, urging with some force to
leave his control behind, let some dormant force come forth and burst.
Oh that he leaves his ‘stuff’ behind, changes into
a being that seeks some life fulfilment’s
dream. No more the live-alone desolate
feeling. Can he release the guff that’s trapped in his attic?
Original poem: last four lines of Philip Larkin’s Deceptions