Words of warning from the Borkowski poet in residence to anyone not wishing to make the same mistakes as Paul McCartney, Britney Spears or Robbie Williams, all of whom have mistaken brief, random bliss for something lasting or satisfying.
Bliss is short-lived
a sun spot on a star’s eye
a gutter-pressed candle stuttering out
but the need for it asphyxiated romance years ago
mutilated the long game
the years of caring that underscore a marriage
Bliss lives little longer than a mayfly
It is a brief pout
on lips closing like a letterbox
but bliss, whilst it thrives,
demands constant crescendo,
a hook-laden chorus that never ends or changes.
If listened to,
bliss can be a stone in the head of love.
Take Britney Spears,
the bliss-addicted, scooped out good-time girl
who found her marriage melting away
in a blaze of publicity,
as unsustainable as ice-cream,
whilst she fed herself on baby food
and the corners of her mouth
twitched in desperation
Or Paul McCartney,
lonely after the death of Linda,
locked into a legless marriage
the brief bliss that brought about a baby
burned away by the realisation
that loss cannot be cured with a plaster
Or Robbie Williams.
bed-hopping through the emptiness
until desperation shines on his forehead
like vulgar sweat
and nobody wants him, not even angels
Bliss is a short-lived, quantum phenomenon
You can find it on a warm, quiet day in the sun
in the small, wrinkled hands of a newborn baby
in the everlasting, universal
single second of an orgasm.
but it cannot be demanded
only chanced upon and cherished.
Bliss is not the be all or the end all of love