Autobiography no. 1

I was constantly playing games with language and history.
I knew that the people I spoke with did not understand,
so I would make dozens of references to Ovid in a night
and watch them blink away confusion so many times.

It is not exactly that I was contemptuous of them,
although I held them in slight regard.
In truth I do not know why my life was as it was.
Certainly I resented anyone who was friendly to me
and suspected them to be either idiotic or untrustworthy.

While I slept I was the only one alive
but each morning robbed me of that purity
and forced me to conjure up the world anew.

I was conscious that I was constantly creating reality,
that although it was convenient that I should encounter a woman
who looked liked Titian was painting her as she moved through her day
I must acknowledge the obvious artificiality of her existence.

There was a time when I thought she was what I had been searching for,
but she never displayed cruelty or fits of anger or wanton disregard
and because she had no flaws I knew that she could not be the Muse.