#Sonnets. Lucien Young

love cannot be broken

      As though it bore an adamantium sheen.

      Thy scornful looks may cut me deeper far

      Than blades the Silver Samurai doth wield,

      But fear I neither fatal blow nor scar

      For when thou smil’st, I am as swiftly healed.

      And yet my meagre claws cannot defend

      Against thy changing moods: ay, there’s the rub.

      Sometime thou art my foe, sometime my friend;

      Like Sabretooth, I cannot trust thee, bub.

      I would thee ken, but no one of my sex

      Shall know thy mind, not e’en Professor X.

      MAD MEN

      Men who have secrets in their doleful eyes,

      Which speak of old misfortune and of danger,

      May sweet contentment deftly advertise,

      While to their hearts it doth remain a stranger.

      And though they don fulfilment’s drapery

      And fill an office in some gleaming tower

      And smoke and drink and do adultery,

      They still doth dread the self-reflecting hour.

      O Don, thy name’s a fraud, thy home a shambles;

      Thou art aware the future is not thine,

      But rather Peggy’s, Sally’s and Pete Campbell’s,

      Who thee observe as looks and lungs decline.

      Too well thou knowest where thy soul doth dwell:

      Life’s changeless, ever-changing carousel.

      TEXTING

      1.

      I have thy number, but know not thy heart,

      Thus I resolve a flirty text to send.

      Should I put ‘hey’ or ‘what’s up’ at the start?

      A kiss or sly emoji at the end?

      Alas, each text seems trite and poorly phrased,

      Naught but the trifle of a dullard’s hand;

      No sooner are they written than erased,

      As though I write my lines upon the sand.

      Some twenty efforts later, I despair

      And at the iPhone’s empty screen I blink,

      When suddenly my muse doth heed my prayer

      And I these words peck out: ‘Fancy a drink?’

      Then, thinking that this draft cannot be bettered,

      I send the text, and instantly regret it.

      2.

      The bubble grey emerges, three small dots

      Declare that thou dost fashion thy reply

      And, lo, my brow is slicked, my stomach knots,

      For soon thy precious words shall fill mine eye.

      Whate’er thine answer be, I need it now,

      Whether it yield me joy or endless night,