If Bowie was a ‘closet heterosexual’
I’m a closet monogamist – yearning
to become one of those couples –
dull and contented, nourished
and healthy, secure and trusting
as a dog in a kennel. One of those couples
who walk hand-in-hand too slowly
on footpaths, or kiss with too much
saliva on buses, or make phone calls
to discuss their dinner plans
in libraries: we need to eat
those lamb chops before they go off;
do we have enough gas for the barbie?
I hate them because they have something
I want, but not, however, at any cost –
I could never choose a one-size-fits-all
life just because I’m tired of being single.
The problem is I learn too quickly –
I’m capable of gleaning a lifetime’s worth
of wisdom in just a few months,
leaving me with no choice
but to tell my lovers they’re dumped –
yet society has the audacity to call me
a slut. The fact is, we’re all imprisoned
by our own psychological schisms –
right now, for instance, I’m repeating
the mistakes of my teens and twenties
but with older men who should know better
because I conflate ‘insane’ with ‘interesting’.
Really I should just cut my losses, swap
my high heels for Crocs lined with sheepskin,
buy one of those vibrators with rabbit ears,
and devote myself to something harmless
like religion. Yet even David Bowie found
his way to domesticity after decades
of debauchery – while still remaining
creatively brilliant. Happiness is not art’s
antithesis, it’s just harder to describe.
But I’m hardworking. I’m willing to try.