“A Sad Blonde” © Sketchman Boris

 

Canto IV of A War Papyrus

Man having to be loyal
To a war that
If not ending in his life,
Then in his potential to live,
But woman
Free to be traitor to him,
Loyal only to the self and
Some vague
Malleable sense of happiness
Expressed, cravenly, in
This letter–her letter

Nice letters, nice handwriting,
That, I can say, while
Impressions of women
In general, at this moment,
Judiciously withheld
From any conscious consideration;

But of the sparse doctors and nurses
Or trained anesthesiologists and amputers
With no degree, as I suspect they are,
Suspect them of not having, it seems to me
That they have earned my loathing.

Still, I say nothing, even smile at times.
How long they will allow me
To stay in this bed
And consume rations
Is anyone’s guess,
Not that it matters greatly

Especially, in moments
When mind becomes untethered
And loses itself in loss
Like a mole confused and blind
Groping in the labyrinth of tunnels
It has built, hardly able
To find its way back
And wary, not only that
Trying to return
Might make him further lost,
But that upon successfully returning
Any return might deepen loss

Hospital staff, please send me back to the fields to die.
And while waiting for that consummation,
That ultimate sodomized copulation with death,
Let my emptiness be filled
Atavistically in base savagery.
It is what gave meaning to man once

And of death,
Beloved habits, associations, persons
That once were embedded in
The psyche of a nine year old boy
Cease at ten, and of ten, eleven,
Death being always with us

Not a betrothal per se
But a look, a gesture,
A private conversation
Can say as much as a formal
Public declaration,
But it matters little now.
And although the thought
Of her kept me going
In those nights of battles
Like the abused tortured child
Who befriends, in his imagination,
The embraces of Jesus Christ,
That only value of a non-existing god
In saving children from
Suicidal or patricidal/matricidal aims,
She, this ugly woman, is free to go now

Now that her handsome boy
Is a defective product,
A limb-less tree.
She is free to seek her pollen
Elsewhere. Of course she would.
Not a letter, not a post card,
Nothing, until now;
Nothing to be shocked about,
As all is nothing

 

Steven David Justin Sills is an American poet and novelist living in Bangkok Thailand. Some of his early works can be seen on the Online Book Page at the University of Pennsylvania. His poetry book, An American Papyrus is in various libraries including a scanned copy in the Internet Archive. Of this early work, one reviewer said, “Sills’ vision is often a dark one. He writes of the homeless, the abused, the forgotten people. He is also intrigued with the mystical, the sensual/sexual, loss–as in losing those whom we hold dear, such as a spouse or lover–as well as the lost, such as someone who is autistic, who seems unreachable. Sills’ skillful use of the language to impart the telling moments of a life is his strength. He chooses his words carefully, employing a well-developed vocabulary. He is thoughtful about punctuation, where to break lines and when to make a new stanza. He’s obviously well versed in “great” literature. Sills’ command of language helps to soften the blows of some of the seamier passages found in his poems. Seamy may not be the best word to use. Perhaps gritty is a better word or just plain matter-of-fact…” Following the rewriting of his last novel, The Three Hour Lady, the Russo-Ukrainian War began and he felt that its significance needed to be captured in verse. This particular poem is about that sense of betrayal that wounded soldiers experience when a girlfriend breaks the relationship

Sketchman Boris is a cartoonist who lives in Bangkok Thailand and is the founder of Bkk Unzine Magazine