no-one knew me for what I am.
To be seen but remain unseen
I took cover behind a geisha hand;
I let my masculine glare disguise me;
I bent my smile into a Mona smirk.
I took cover behind a geisha hand;
I let my masculine glare disguise me;
I bent my smile into a Mona smirk.
My cheerful half-wit grin
made lightness of being
into dead weight.
made lightness of being
into dead weight.
I wore insouciance like a veil
my thoughtless face shone through;
I contrived to look indifferent.
my thoughtless face shone through;
I contrived to look indifferent.
I tried to become mysterious,
both poet and spook, a secret agent
of the mean streets, metaphorically rubbing
my poison pen on the locks and handles
of doors closed in my face.
both poet and spook, a secret agent
of the mean streets, metaphorically rubbing
my poison pen on the locks and handles
of doors closed in my face.
I could not abandon false modesty,
would not discard my furtiveness;
any more than I could reveal myself
or draw attention to my concealment.
would not discard my furtiveness;
any more than I could reveal myself
or draw attention to my concealment.
Oh, I tried to keep the mask from slipping:
its elastic tugged at my Byronic locks,
constricted the blood-flow in my scalp,
in short, threatened to give the game away.
its elastic tugged at my Byronic locks,
constricted the blood-flow in my scalp,
in short, threatened to give the game away.
I grew tired of it all: this life and its mirrors,
my conceited reflection in shop windows
staring back at me over the heel of my hand
looking sideways round an obscuring book.
my conceited reflection in shop windows
staring back at me over the heel of my hand
looking sideways round an obscuring book.
I had tried so vainly to be heard.
No-one knew me though I wanted them to,
every one looking while I stowed away
inside my illusion.
every one looking while I stowed away
inside my illusion.
No-one knew me as I wanted them to;
everyone looking at a figure they imagined,
hiding in the shadows I had cast.
everyone looking at a figure they imagined,
hiding in the shadows I had cast.
© Brian Hill
Brian Hill. 50 years a poet. One-time designer and film-maker; long ago, the rhyme-slinger, cartoon cowboy, and planetarium poet; now feverishly stringing words together in the hope of making sense.
Brian blogs as Scumdadio (don’t ask).
