This not knowing what love is thing
isn't really about love at all.
Its about self
and the childish craving
for completion that flows
from the bedrock belief
that I'm a broken toy
you can fix
with your eyes and heart and pussy.
I got a good dose of it
this last month,
when what I thought I needed
didn't happen
and I panicked,
before slowing down,
taking a breath,
and noticing
you were doing
the same damn thing
as me.
These moments of clarity
come like flowers in Spring,
though if you never get past
the screaming cadence
of unexamined truth,
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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