This Is You, This Is You, Right Now, Amelie Ison, Evil Personified: You Knowingly Aggravating, Inflaming My Urinary Tract Infection Poem by Dennis Ryan

Tuesday morning, June 18,2024 at 8: 16 a.m., minor revision to this poem; Tuesday morning, June 11,2024 at 7: 47 a.m.,8: 37 a.m.,8: 39 a.m. and 9: 06 a.m., Poem Hunter blocking from publication three times this 24+ line poem … now growing longer as I expand on my thinking, and hopefully finish it at 10: 37 a.m. EST.

—dedicated to the one and only Amelie Ison, an 18-years-old
Pubic school girl from Leicester, England

'Is this about the Troubles? ? Ah, well, I suppose it doesn't really matter what it's about … '
—Amelie Ison, her Poem Hunter comment made to me on June 9,2024 concerning my poem 'A Quiet Day In Belfast … ' published on Poem Hunter earlier the same day, June 9, 2024

Tell me what you are about?
Affecting casualness, being blazee—
two things, thugs, you obviously are not!
Mixed, mixed up in a tiny-little English actress
body, playing bit parts badly, played badly, badly
affecting, affecting naught. Rien. I know who you
really are, pulling you apart bit by bit by bit to growing
consternation, yours, your chagrin—grin, play a part,
keep playing it … casual, blazee … whatever works
for you whatever you choose, knowing all the while
that …. you looking for a way out. As to your looks,
appeal, the lack thereof, well, yes … park that, that
thought in a big, wide parking space here, presently
reserved for devastating future poems. Concerning
who? Let me reflect, meditate, pray, seek the King's,
his son Prince William's royal advice since you are
yourself English royalty—so assine, so smug of you.
(Grow up little girl! Give up your illusions, delusions
of grandeur! You are only what you are, are, potential,
as I have consistently told you. Wise up, grow up
gone girl.) You already knowing, in the know, knowing
how well-deserving of my several 'tributes' that you,
in fact, are. Are. Being. Of the moment. Now,
moment to moment… this is all there is plus potential,
is all that is real, very real. Fact. Who are you? You?
In fact, you are an affected, egotistical manipulator and
liar—showing me now your/her shadow side—a little
snot-nosed English schoolgirl and actor, acting out
your shadow side—we all have one—which to me
amounts to 'rien vraimont', French for 'absolutely
nothing', nothing there, zero, save for my distain,
here—I know you, know your nothing all too well
now, absolutely, absolute Evil in person, Evil's public
face, Evil personified—your extreme shadow side
as you know, knowingly provoke me time and again,
knowing already that I have this incredibly painful,
'stubborn UTI' that you are constantly aggravating,
inflaming, making flare out this urinary tract infection,
you agent of the police—British and American that
you are, are, hopefully, just for the moment—doing
their bidding, 'caught here in the middle', with me,
you and me right now are—Scots' Jerry Rafferty's
rock-and-roll anthem, Stealer's Wheel, early 1970's.
You quick-quick to leave the scene, exit stage left,
disappearing from the site of contention, the site
of your wrongdoing, evildoing, totally uncontrite,
unapologetic, just ironic and sarcastic talk—akin
to mine—meant to aggravate, inflame. Yes, I know.
This is you, that shadow side of you, Evil personified.

Then. Now. There is your light, your sunny side,
the one I met and used to know, your polite and
largely unassuming side, the aspiring poet I used
to know, sensitive, shy face to face, quiet in public,
talented, your writing, potential there, that's the person—
not poet—I wanted to help, and did, now to my sorry,
my regret, my own chagrin, of sorts … yet still I remain
hopeful, for you, your life, counting my losses, forever
forever counting loses, it seems. Seems. Seems. Is. Are.