DESTINED TO END
Ah, poetry (let’s
out a breath
hears
syllables
expire)
hard to love it
impossible
to destroy it
Eliot, Richards,
Yvor Winters
all those years wasted
learning about it
from first
stumbling days on
the Rondebosch campus
then in red drag
robe
about to be
your Dr G
which does the job
for would be rapper
of academic professional
(professional
perhaps not
in the
dolling up to
take on the streets
revolutionary
of pleasure sense)
but
incoming! a fat
opening line
fully
armour-piercing
iconic Krupp
88mm
flouting itself as it
whistles upon me
fade to
black. fade to
white
lap dissolve and then
match cut as it
demands
all my time
wouldn’t you
know it, have guessed it
something this
agonistic
simply certain
to happen
popping
onto the page
exactly where we are, here
of places
oddest location where
we swore
never again, would never
see
let alone entertain
each other again
so
adamant this
would be so
and yet
look what just happened
both
of us cast headlong
shades of the Lady
of Christ’s
angel
of free speech, secret cosmic rebel
off to the races
newly redefined spaces
no way of knowing
where this poem, this
thing poetry
ever began
where (and how) in Hell, on Earth,
it is destined to end
poems 2 die for 