I am my own Iago. Small and neat
I lounge and sneer at the back of my own mind.
Sometimes , it’s true, in self-defence I leap
where bright blades flash. I have my skills:
I thrust and parry with the best of them,
yet I must admit , I’m not much with the broadsword.
Leave that to the oaf up front, swart muscled bastard,
the strutting peacock all you fools admire.
I’ve heard you praise him, build his ego up
with talk of his potential. Holy Christ !
You haven’t seen him as I have- a stumbling drunk
besotted with his visions of romance
mumbling , rumbling with incoherencies.
That’s just the point: you laud him, call him noble
direct and blunt and manly in a world of men.
A ladies’ man too-- in a world of men.
To me you nod politely, too afraid to jeer
except behind my back. You know too well
his humbleness forgives the grossest insult.
But no, my pretty ones, not I. Just make one slip,
I’ll pin you and leave you wriggling on the pin.
And I’ll enjoy it. Let him wave his sword,
let him bear his long steel phallus,
let the women flock to him.
I know them as they are , the randy bitches
too excited by the smell of his dark musk
to understand that the closer that they come
to him , the closer it must be to me.
Then I don’t have to shout; I merely whisper
and watch him shake his head in puzzlement
and wonder why they press so hard on him.
Behind that thick-lipped smile I sow a doubt.
Such easy game , it’s hardly even sport.
By now, in fact, it’s no more than routine.

First off , the goatish prance, the big display
of muscle power and skill; the white teeth flash;
he treads a dance through multi-coloured mazes
of unrestrained emotion. And they fall--
God , how they fall. They simply cannot see
beyond the caperings, the swelling cloak,
to where I stand disgusted, looking on.

Sometimes I almost pity them, and yet,
no matter how I try I can’t convince
the idiots they’re being taken in.
What he has to offer is a fraud:
beaded sweat and body smell, not brain.
I can’t convince them that it’s really I
who runs this puppet show , who pulls the strings,
who can prick the bubble of his self conceit
at any time I wish . They’re all bemused ;
because he’s like a child, they mother him,
giving him candies for his great red tongue to lick.
He can’t survive without me -- but , one phrase,
and I slice the dream from round him till he sees
their failings through my eyes. He sometimes tried
to recreate the dance, but it’s a farce;
his heart’s not in it. He remains polite,
but they want more than courtesy. They retire,
wondering what’s happened to their fancy man.
Sometimes , to ring some simple changes on
an old routine, I give him leave
to try again, but it’s never quite the same.
He hasn’t the finesse without me there
to oversee his maladroit performance.
He’s much too likely to miscalculate
and finish up no hero but a clown.
On most occasions though I much prefer
to keep control. It’s better so.

Just once, he found a Desdemona for a while.
Beauty , simplicity , ignorant innocence
are hard to overcome when they’re allied
to his brute strength. There was no way
for direct action , I had to play the waiting game .

I pared my nails and watched.
The fever shook me but I made no show.
I sighed , tut-tutted, shook my head and smiled.
It wasn’t quite what he expected. His big hands trembled
and all the while that he groped for comfort ,
clutched and grasped, those same hands learned
the way to a white throat.
It seems I have the great black bear well trained .

After the first time there was hardly need
to find a handkerchief.