I read
your biography, hand stamped
and correction liquid filled
till the paper stuck like glue
and the pictures,
all glory, had your head
on the shoulders of giants.
I heard your authorised memoir
through my ears and the hairs
wilted under the pressure, singed
by facts and figures
quoted by this somewhere man
whose ego arrives an hour
before his life;
I took your words and I let them blow away
into the sunset, a history, not secret,
no tale too tall which you could
I may not have been the most ideal husband
that you could have had, baggage
galore and the wandering lust of the insecure,
not content in boredom and one who finds
it near impossible to dance. Married once before,
turned down twice more and the ignominy
of walking away from an Hispanic woman
who offered me the world, pompous at times
and stubborn as Hell when it comes to backing down
and the worry I have caused as I continue
to break down piece by piece by infuriating