The other day you asked me what I meant
when (distinctly feeling somewhat spent)
I said that we could never be as one
because — to put it bluntly —
you have some thing running through your soul
right across the longtitude and latitude
(the breadth of our derisory domain)
which flies into the fleeting fading face of me:
your Attitude, to coin its proper name
 
Trying to explain it all in well-put words
even for a man who habitually
herds them into shapely rhyme
is not an easy exercise.
The overall impression which intensely
washes over me
is that it seems to have the outline
of a roar insanely tsunami
and in the middle of the maelstrom
you no longer strangely seem to me
to be a woman
 
Attitude is when you are so full of yourself
so determined to nurture Number One
that it blots out the glimmer of our fiercely-shining sun
ensuring that there is no place for any other.
Attitude is when there is so little poetry within
that everything which precious is
you smother with your endless spin
(a vestige of your many-fingered mother)
 
Attitude destroys womanliness
demeans femininity
turns you into the kind of man
who — despite our past affinity —
I can no longer bear to be
the muse of me
 
The reason that we
have to be apart
is that I cannot stand
to blithely be entwined
around a heart
which stares at me
with ugly tones
in cold air blast
naked and frozen
with the crazed confetti
of a twisted past
showering into my sickened soul
an intergalactic ice-patrol
gaudy colours nailed to your
fast decaying mast
[that proud thrust of your sword
would never be the last]
unfettered by the lively sails
of your punch-holed boat
your nails gouge their way
into the corners of my throat
and I am
gasping
grasping
at the cold inspanding air
while inner voices whisper:
“Will you always fail to dare
to take the path beneath your feet
which leads to silken silent streets
where you can stretch your withered
mind and soul in branchful trees
and bathe your wounded heart
caressing currents of the balmy breeze
and know that only when you wrestle
on your addled own
your poetry can limply leave
the combat zone”
 
I dared to walk those streets with broken toes
But nothing yet to take your place did grow