I met a girl whose smirk was fire
when on the edge of thirteen.
I'd been a boy unblemished by desire
before she burned her brand on me.
Her disdain drove me to distraction.
Her antipathy struck me as wise.
She taught joy brings no satisfaction
and contempt is Love's favorite disguise.
Miss Disdain grew up and multiplied,
and I have delighted in each Fury's spite.
Knowing all the flaws that I hide
their indifference can only be right.
She was the alpha of all cruel passions
whose touch would make lesser men wince
and in various forms and fashions
I've chased Miss Disdain ever since.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry 
Profound. I haven’t read Proust, but my college French teacher impressed on us the Proustian notion of “l’être en fuite” — the being in flight. The one who runs away is the one we chase.
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So true.
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Early imprinting does its worst. Why do we chase after that kind of familiar, like Konrad’s ducks!
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I wish I knew.
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