"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
Nowhere near finished, but a beginning of something I’ve wanted to write about for a long time. All too true, I’m afraid. Here are some entirely credible examples. Never again….
All the men are balding.
Each one picks a name to illustrate
that this is all a joke because hey,
he could find a woman in the real world any day.
Baz, SexG, CrazyGed,
StokeBoy, MaccLad, Fitbod.
His photo shows him drunk
and sunburnt in a Turkish bar
ten years ago; or in a rugged hood,
a ski suit; in a paraglider harness. Or
he’s standing by a car or motorbike,
his hand flat on its polished flank
his eyes elsewhere.
These are the good ones. Others,
laying bare the only time they bothered,
post a dinner jacket photo
amputated at the shoulder
where their left arm curls around
somebody out of shot. There is
a sliver of white satin at the edge.
You ask yourself –
who took these images?
Who stood behind the camera,
and what became of all the men
who aimed their lens at me –
or of the man I took a picture of
ten years ago, that Izmir night?