Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet,
performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal
about town, feminist, freewheeler, and
friend. One day, she is going to be an
ideas curator. Which basically
means, she will tell you
exactly what she thinks.
Until then, you’ll have
to read between
the lines.
finally, you are a poem
I meditated on you tonight.
Well,
not on you,
obviously I haven’t done anything on you
in months
years even
but on the idea of you,
which was probably what I was in love with
if we were to be honest with one another
and if at all you could accept the idea
that I, Cerberus to your deceitful love,
hell-hound of your past, present and future
(or just that bitch you dated once)
was capable of love
or even just approaching a lazy version of it.
Love: the idea of a woman as fierce as a lion
or a beach or a bed,
the insatiable existing that is life.
A wet Labrador
beating its tail
on the rug on an autumn afternoon
knocks a tea cup to the floor,
which spills,
staining the Persian reality brown.
All this emerged from the Om
of you.
I might as well have masturbated
with a chain around my neck
for all the relief it gave me.
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