I havent got the brainpower,
I never did have the brainpower,
And my memory is no good.

I read all the right books,
And enjoy them for an evening,
Then forget what they say.

It is only my obsessions that survive,
As I deconstruct romantic love,
With the aid of the neuroscientists.

As I find I have nothing to live for,
Because my emotions were scrambled in infancy,
And I cannot feel genuine love, only hate.

But for someone with my problems,
I have organised my life well,
Making a miniscule talent go a long way.

Where did those daft ideas of being somebody come from?
Tales my mother told me?
Or was it written in my genes.

Douglas Clark /Poems07/ Benjamin Press, 69 Hillcrest Drive, Bath BA2 1HD, UK/ d.g.d.clark@dgdclynx.plus.com