The Idiocy of Love

When every moment of clarity is a happy memory or a fantasy
and your inner Goth has sloped off in search of some misery;
there’s a glow in your eyes that warms your surroundings
and the friends that aren’t avoiding you say you’re looking less pasty;

when you can’t stop yourself smiling,
even though you’re pining,
then your psyche’s intertwined
with the idiocy of love.

It’s like waking up in the perfect dream
where you’re dancing on clouds of fresh esteem;
and every tiny flashback sends a shiver to your knees,
like icy fingers on a window pane,
when it’s pattering with rain
and very dark indeed.

This time last month
you had all the sex appeal of a broken catheter.
You were washed up forever on the lonely shores of sadness,
with some waterlogged baggage and an absence of shoulders,
and you were more down in the dumps than a diabetic Umpa Lumpa.

And then you met, and you swooned
like you’d been jabbed in the guts with a gouging spoon,
and although you’re trying to tell yourself not to rush into things too soon,
you’re singing morning has broken to trainloads of commuters
and giggling at police cordons,
skipping gaily through the shopping malls like a Spring lamb in, erm, Spring,
because you’re firing on so many happy pistons.

When you’re been caught unprepared,
but don’t care to feel scared,
then you’ve been hopelessly ensnared
by the idiocy of love,
because someone crept inside your head
and gave your brain a kiss,
so let the hawks fly round in endless circles,
while you spread your wings and take the risk
of finding Heaven with the doves,
because for every colossal act of hatred
there’s a thousand tiny acts of love.

By Rob Gee