This won't be the last poem I write for it
Aug. 7th, 2009 12:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rozkBut this is one of the final poems in the sequence.
When things end
When we ended
When I called it a day
when she shrugged me off
when we kissed the air near each other's cheek
and when one of us got off a bus
got on a plane
walked to the other end of the platform
walked out of the restaurant
throwing a tenner for the bill
not enough
but worth the money to be rid of
We end
so many times, each time we leave
each time we fuck and say it is the last
each time we talk of ending is an end.
And once
that one time
it really was.
You don't know
at the start of things
how things end
just that they do.
People leave, people die,
even at ninety three it's still the end.
Love always ends in films
so films can end. slow fade to grey
long shot down avenue
she drives away
with some rich slob
'Garance Garance'
the broken-hearted mime
his mouthing shrunk to a dot
a period in a paragraph of crowd.
Plane leaves, police cars arrive
sirens the sigh of parting
fade to grey.
Not like that, no lovedeathswansong
curtains poisons tombs
just curtness. We are over.
She agrees.
I ask more than she will give
she doesn't want me gone
but will not ask or give
that I might stay.
Pride is our end
I always knew that pride would be our end
and said fuck pride.
But that's a fuck that leaves
a taste behind.
Better be done with it.
One final time
embrace
solid
shoulders
thin wrists like fragile cradled birds
face you fix
one final time
the brown delicious eyes
that open wide
paint completes those lips
enough, this is the end.
One walks away, the other stays
one looks back and the other is waiting for that look
nervous smiles, half a thought
then turn and go. Over.
Went this evening to hear![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
natalie456 read her very different poetry which is all verbal music and flirtations with meaning; the sort of thing that I like the more I think of it and which is as alien to anything I might write as sestinas and sonnets.
In the end, we just do what we do, in poetry and in life; I seem to be cashing in experience I banked twenty years ago. Talk about emotion recollected in tranquillity. 'You think it terrible that lust and rage/should dance attendance upon my old age'.
When things end
When we ended
When I called it a day
when she shrugged me off
when we kissed the air near each other's cheek
and when one of us got off a bus
got on a plane
walked to the other end of the platform
walked out of the restaurant
throwing a tenner for the bill
not enough
but worth the money to be rid of
We end
so many times, each time we leave
each time we fuck and say it is the last
each time we talk of ending is an end.
And once
that one time
it really was.
You don't know
at the start of things
how things end
just that they do.
People leave, people die,
even at ninety three it's still the end.
Love always ends in films
so films can end. slow fade to grey
long shot down avenue
she drives away
with some rich slob
'Garance Garance'
the broken-hearted mime
his mouthing shrunk to a dot
a period in a paragraph of crowd.
Plane leaves, police cars arrive
sirens the sigh of parting
fade to grey.
Not like that, no lovedeathswansong
curtains poisons tombs
just curtness. We are over.
She agrees.
I ask more than she will give
she doesn't want me gone
but will not ask or give
that I might stay.
Pride is our end
I always knew that pride would be our end
and said fuck pride.
But that's a fuck that leaves
a taste behind.
Better be done with it.
One final time
embrace
solid
shoulders
thin wrists like fragile cradled birds
face you fix
one final time
the brown delicious eyes
that open wide
paint completes those lips
enough, this is the end.
One walks away, the other stays
one looks back and the other is waiting for that look
nervous smiles, half a thought
then turn and go. Over.
Went this evening to hear
natalie456 read her very different poetry which is all verbal music and flirtations with meaning; the sort of thing that I like the more I think of it and which is as alien to anything I might write as sestinas and sonnets.In the end, we just do what we do, in poetry and in life; I seem to be cashing in experience I banked twenty years ago. Talk about emotion recollected in tranquillity. 'You think it terrible that lust and rage/should dance attendance upon my old age'.
