My last ever poem

i banged down doors
i ripped out throats
looking for the words

(it came to this)

i searched father's colostomy bag
i opened a dying patients arteries
hunting for you and your adverbs

(it tied me down)

i pulled on pink rubber gloves
i delved up and down your passages
probing for signs of 'right characters',

(it flushed me out)

i unzipped delicious leather cased pencils
i chewed the end of many blue veined pens
sampling for evidence of your good taste,

(it poisoned my letters)

i slept with conferences of curly swine
i came up smelling of roses and shite
sniffing for clues to your wear-about's,

(it made me sense)

i listened well to many a weasel's speech
i noted every white mans forking tongue
trying to catch that fabled Freudian beast,

(it slipped me out)

i banged down doors
i ripped out throats
looking for the words,

(it came to this)

but in the end after many
miserable examples of my
contrived dialogue metered
out to look & feel like verse,

i gave up the quest to find you
instead i kept my golden silence
in a lacquered box labelled Haiku,

until love comes
needing an ocean of me
to cover it's earth,

there I will sit alone
busy filling the gaps
of your dashed lines
with my white space.


John G.Hall(C)2005

*Sometimes a poet's muse just needs a good kicking.