Death of a romantic

In the beginning,
there was supposed to be a prince
who would come pick me up
and take me to a remote land
where we would have babies.
There used to be that cheese.

Later,
it was agreed there would be a big-bang
and some blood spilt, when we first met.
It was agreed that that instant
would breed a high voltage wire
linking our souls of true alter egos, and then
a war for years, war of egos,
of jealousies and addictions.
He would throw words at me, clasping my wrists,
I would throw swords at him, and pages of my books
that he would eat, rabid, to say they’re crap,
burping their ink over our sheets, and I
would roll in them naked to be bathed in his spit, lie there
blackened, and welcome his assaults, the tongue
licking it off, the febrile claws unstea-
dily checking I could still moan,
and it still moved, that chest. Then a
whole night would freeze and a lamp burn
while we shared a pillow and swore
to do better next time.

No doubt,
there would be divorces
until we’d used all the lawyers,
a fear of each other, a defiance,
that impression he made on my blasée
resignation; sparkles, sparkles. That dependence.
He would cheat on me with the hardly ripe,
I would attempt treason, he would smoke in my nose,
yell ‘our love is stronger!’, fuck me in-
between doors, make me cry at windows.
Hanging on to curtains. I’d leave
the house to go for walks, he’d leave
the house to go for months. Waiting
in the lobby, Penelope, weaving and unweaving
my nerves, trashing his books,
til he’d come back with a new kiss
or a biting technique to preserve me
superglued to his lips.
And some days we would be genius
and write down our drama, turn it into classics
in several tomes.

You see,
I had heard of Sylvia and Ted,
read of Sartre and de Beauvoir,
Zelda and Scott, many others,
and watched their lives on screens.

Those myths.

Now I know
that they want peace like old Scobbie,
and fun. Good meals in front of the TV,
a mistress or two on the side, allowed,
and above all no scenes.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry.

One comment on “Death of a romantic

  1. The romantic in me has died long ago. I don’t regret it. I’ve found a new way to enjoy life.

    I enjoyed the sharp wording of this poem. 🙂

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s