the song of the cuckold.
and this seems like a poem
might as well warn you from the start
that it doesn’t want to be one.
I don’t want to turn anything into poetry.
I know very well that she played her part
but right now I’m not interested.
It’s a thing between you and me.
Personally, I don’t give a damn about who encouraged whom:
in fact, I don’t even know if I care about anything.
But a man has to say something.
In any case, you made her drink five MacKewan beers,
you took her to your room, you put on the right records
and within an hour or two it was done.
I know all about passion and honor
but unfortunately neither had anything to do with it;
oh, there was passion, I’m more than sure of that
and even a bit of honor
but the important thing was to get Leonard Cohen.
Damn, might as well address this to both of you
I don’t have time to write anything else.
I have to say my prayers.
I have to wait by the window.
I repeat: the important thing was to get Leonard Cohen.
I like that line because it has my name in it.
What really disgusts me
is that everything continues as before:
I’m still more or less a friend,
I’m still more or less a lover.
But not for long:
that’s why I’m addressing both of you.
The fact is I’m turning to gold, turning to gold.
It’s a long process, they say,
it happens in stages.
This is to inform you that I have already turned to clay.