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Unrequited
by John Birkbeck
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I hunch over my old typewriter
hammering out a frenzy
of odes and sonnets
of unrequited lust
in rapid-fire staccato
tossing them away
as fast as I pound them out
enraged that I bother.
Some will be dropped
into a letterbox eventually
to land at your doorstep --
at last to fall under
the scan of your grey
indifferent eyes.
I'm not yet old enough
for philosophy nor yet
serene enough for sage wisdom
nor yet young enough
for copious jacking-off
about better times or to
craze amid smashed bottles.
Your idiot lover goes slack-jawed
after another tedious ejaculation
while you ride his lap laughing
reading to him the more inflamed
passages of my unanswerable
letters from thousands
of days ago.
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