Someone Will Drown at the End

The essence of my poetry will be of the highest care. The setting is simple: a simple man, a simple woman, and they love each other. In through within among between the verses, so they will say, I love you, and I love you back, but in a way that is beautiful and poetic poop. A literature that is eaten and consumed, digested through juices of my own creativity, extracting all nutrients necessary, but since I am incapable of being my own woman, with my own sense of justice and definitions, without the single stroke of the hairy palm, I excrete the story.

But it is not a story.

One may think it will be a story, it is poetry. Love is ethereal, so they say, but they say it words that are prettier and more important than prose. They are thought of, thought about, and thought regardless, and then, waiting, waiting, waiting, one will find out that tin between the love, there is actually hate, for they learned to distrust each other in the most natural of ways: they spent a relationship knowing each other so thoroughly, that they know how incompatible they truly are. In the most original of developments, in the curves that have ever been curved through the limey-slimy-smiley figure of my own hips, then, it is distrust that leaves one of them to leave the other to drown in the beach in which they are walking, which can also be a lake, which a kiddie pool, if one so desires, that can also be a metaphor for something else.

A political reality. An economic equality. An injustice of bloody noses. A dictatorship of words. A misery of the soul. A cut in the finger. A transformation into someone worse.

Whatever it is, the other person that will love in my poem will walk away from their lover and go on as if nothing had happened. It will be ironic, bold, daring, talkative, or it will be unappealing, repugnant, disgusting, exotic. Someone walks into a sun or a moon, or smiles in heavy sigh, or digs themselves up a little hole, while a corpse floats away. There will be no culprit and there will be no investigation.

The poem is over, I will say, what else will I say? Not in the text itself, but in the words, of a true poet, of a writer that has lived through centuries of seconds.

I will defend this ending with my life. A true testament to how easy it is to take love away, and how easy it is to enjoy, even deeply and shamefully, the suffering of someone who once was cared for so much. The words inked through my tears will transmit through eyeball antennae and it will be read and it will be understood and it will be interpreted in the exact way I intended. A poem with a point and with a narrative hidden and a character who lives happily and one that drowns at the end. That will be written in memory and it will be celebrated in whichever way I prefer, a flailing ecstasy will hurried through. A lamentation! A celebration! A poem, written by me, not a story! Not a murder but a drowning and so on and so on and so on and so on and so on…