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FOND FAREWELL

April 2, 2018

I quietly care for falsehoods,

They bring on thought, and wonder.

And when the lines don’t match,

They do, by awe and wonder.

 

Waiting to be called, bruskly,

I’ll take my chance. I’ll steal.

And I’ll plunder, all cunningly,

To the ladies of the street, I’ll smile.

 

A small theatre, to my pleasure,

Almost empty, quite a pleasure.

You know not one without the other,

Hearing from behind walls: pleasure.

 

Come in late. I was early, as usual,

Sit before me. Talk to yourself, etc.

Publicity blinds us: look away,

No one cleans here, broom and dust pan.

 

Remembering a troublesome line,

Now lost …. was it as written?

Written falsely, in false tones,

Look behind, then ahead: it’s here.

 

A play on words …. the advertisements

Worry us, for we’re here. We’ve paid.

A celebratory café. It’s false,

No more false words: no struggles.

 

Why the need to exemplify,

We’d prefer the others.

A smoker’s scent, from afar,

Begin the parody, as a falsehood.

 

The caricatures blend with themselves,

As yesterday, as today. English accents.

Read a diary, not yours. Time, never enough,

Ample time …. his sick breath. Of course.

 

Your child’s eight. You are what age,

A smoker’s cough, of course. Bad acting ….

She was Camille: a certain kind of beauty,

And no. I don’t need your help, thank you.

 

Changing pens as an artist changes palettes,

Meet me, then say nothing other.

Old man, you are nothing to me,

I paid you, too much, now, we’re done.

 

A walk through snow, etc, to reach you,

For you hadn’t the energy to meet me.

And then, you talk of yourself: uninteresting,

My story, lost, but no. Our relations are done.

 

You have not the details of Ines?

Quite unfortunately, she wears a moustache.

Yet, she gains attention, oddly. She could marry,

And not worry about name changes …. oddly.

 

Sit where I say, especially tomorrow,

Now, I regret. This will help, little.

For I’m a hopeless case. Go and tell her,

Please. For this is not for me. It’s clear.

 

And why the criticism? Why the interruptions

That aid nothing? Always, the interruptions.

No more cleaning ladies, happily. But her memory remains,

And it’s quite unwelcome. She left a scar.

 

I remember a time of leisure it’s now gone,

To pasts long forgotten. I give them nothing.

Nothing to remember. I’m not an inspiration,

How droll, old fool. And yet, I pay you all the same.

 

She survived, quite surprisingly. But, here she is,

Preparation, preparation. Fall sick, madam. Please.

Ah, you saw me? What an idiotic question,

In response to a statement. I think very fast.

 

And this is exceptionally poor, after a bright start,

Yes, you erred, young man, young man who will never age.

And then, others follow your lead, but of course,

What a sorry saga. What a sorry state.

 

They found your body, at length,

You were not what you wished.

Hence, take your own life. Drug intake, high,

And why didn’t you do as you would later state?

 

It wouldn’t have lasted, not eternally,

We followed your fashions. We followed your end.

Were we wise? This, we’ll discover soon after,

But, we lacked the name: we’ll be soon forgotten.

 

Have you heard? It’s all new, etc,

It’s a travesty, in reality, but still, a truism.

He lied to us in song, maybe not at that time,

Can we repeat titles? It seems unlikely.

 

Worrying for the tone of the message,

But, the response came all the same.

I needed this, not. Mine’s worse, I promise,

Chairs out the window, books stolen, etc.

 

A great lack of confidence: he won’t be on time,

Of course. And I am stuck, as a cretin.

In a rut of garbage and filth. And, he ‘helps’ me,

So he says …. I know I need him ….

 

The final draft. I’m pleased. I await another,

Pushing and pushing. They’re never content.

Write a single word synopsis. Strange,

He’s on time! As a miracle of Easter …. idiocy.

 

A young lady waits …. voices through doors,

But, what do they say? Joyous voices.

Today, we’re free. Tomorrow, we’re collared,

Tomorrow, I’ll be stoned. This, I know.

 

Stoned, for merely what I say, and do,

It’s a vocation: for me, it’s not.

The drugs tire me. Apparently not,

Should I trust doctor; it seems I’ve no choice.

 

Two hand shakes: one was ceremonial,

A poor middle stanza, strong at first,

And at end. Much like my life.

And now, there’s music: a fitting and fond farewell.

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