I - This man is suffering the raging pleasure

'This man is suffering the raging pleasure of resentment:'

Look I'll tell you why he mustn't come in here
A subscriber to strange propaganda, it infests him like
a viral coil, a fever that recedes then resurges
in a wave of fetid vomit when they rally their support,
bringing a furious white heat to his skin
a liner's shudder to his lips

An illness that affects the brain so that he embraces
its symptoms and believe the buboes are signs
of a prosperous future, locked in the claustrophobic
house with him, bred from the same family of guidance,
principle and social conditioning, I find myself
shadowed under the hand

of the threatening plague, incubating a soft, malformed
foetus of juvenile bitterness and frankly laughable
absurdity, mother to the madness that cups him in its
instability and distorts his mind as if it were
dough to be kneaded

by those restless, furtive hands. I wish I were
invulnerable, I wish I were contained within a sterile
environment, or a part of me does, for sterility is too
boring to be universally appealing. So I must be
contaminated, diseased, exposed to his infectious
loathing, the heaving lungs

that cough up some putrid little lines as from a
play, perhaps one that he has read in the hope that the
awareness of it may make him look cleverer than he is.
And ha, there it is seeping through my own lines,
born as they are

from my feverous mind. If love is an elegant way to lose
control of your life, then this is the undignified
method, and this alien inside me, this living, breathing, foul
fervour, contained beneath my deliberate attempts at
understanding, will it grow or remain or return to the dark
hole it was born from?

I don't know. But I can never ascend another
inch so long as
my wrists are roped to
his.
Tell me, tell me. What is the blazing rope made from?