|Clive was betwixt and confused. |
He was merry of heart, he loved
his paltry life, he looked forward
to whatever, and more.
everything he touched
at the moment crumbled.
Became sand through an inane hour-glass.
He never knew if he was coming or going,
Arthur or Martha, Amos or Andy.
He would be pleased if
the spinning stopped, real soon now.
It wasn’t that he was sexually ambivalent.
He’d played the game every which way,
including up. Genderly he was –
parallel would describe it.
Thwack! No such bloody creature, he chastises.
Oh, but yes there is, comes the answer.
He realises that is the first sign of ... of what?
Can’t be progress, must be madness.
He squished the fag-end
into the splintered plank.
He needed the stub of a Faber-Castel
and the back of an envelope.
Sex matters. Gender doesn’t.
Nor does age. The answer isn’t 42.
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