Aidan Ambrose

Aidan Ambrose is an ostracised man,
a crushed Dahlia, pink petals strewn on a bone-dry riverbed
the fragrance of beauty and purity smelt by no one,
ghost notes on the snare, barely heard, hardly understood,
the coherent speech of an Alzheimer’s patient
dismissed as part of his illness,
an indie game with a retro aesthetic, pixelated graphics
that people just don’t want to waste their money on,
a UFC fighter with a fondness for the technical aspects
of the sport, booed, hated, labelled as boring,
a great rock band that now wants to explore other genres
hated by the purists and their old fans who call them a ‘sellout’,
a professional wrestler who isn’t good on the mic but
can make anybody look good in the ring,
a poacher they criticise for a
bad touch and for failing to take part more in the
build up play despite him scoring many goals,
a whisper against a totalitarian regime,
a lover of books whose truth is stranger than fiction,
the first drag of that first cigarette of the day
briefly enjoyed and then forgotten,
an interesting word in one’s vocabulary that she struggles to
fit in a sentence before giving up,
the antithesis of adages,
love without lust, a traditional notion that almost everybody
has abandoned,
a very difficult, puzzling paradox.