The Poet's End

Blow-Daddy is hollering 
like the horn section of a dysfunctional jazz orchestra.  
He’s telling me there’s nothing new to say, 
and I’m just another wanker 
who left a slimy trail
in a forgotten donor jar, 
in an under-funded research centre 
where nothing of any importance 
will ever be discovered.  

He’s just one of my many detractors.

Ignoring him, I listen to the spring rain, 
falling soft as slippers, onto the asphalt.

Asphalt - 
we’re talking the Kerouac highway here, 
not the pragmatic tar macadam of imperial Britain.

In the rain, I see God.  
She’s singing and dancing, like a small child 
attempting to copy the slick moves of Gene Kelly.  
She knows I know the future is endless, 
but she reminds me, so is the past. 

Blow-Daddy would put out his eyes 
if he could see as I do.  
He’d rather have black, sightless sockets 
than behold anything as impertinent as the Deity.
In my hallucinogenic world he is certifiably insane, 
but here, on the grey plane, he’s a stalwart pillar of society.  
He mocks my aspirations; says I will be 
no more a renaissance man than corpse-boy Morrison.  
He doesn’t dig where I’m coming from, 
doesn’t know I’m not interested in mere virtuosity.  
What I’m talking about is 
the infinitely more difficult process 
of sloughing off dead skin.

The rain on the asphalt reminds me 
of all the journeys I’ve made; 
so many now, I’ve worn out my soul.
There’s a certain poetry to that, 
but poetry isn’t always the truth.  
I may have rubbed myself down 
to the sharp edge of sinew and bone 
out on the road, 
but it’s here, in this slumbering city, 
in amongst these standing stones, 
that I let myself be extinguished; 
drinking up the plaudits of all these bloated pundits 
who sanctified the sacrifices I made for my art.  
They do not realise the horror of what they say.  
Forgive them Lord!  
I sacrificed nothing.
Regardless, I was a fool 
for their cotton candy words.  
And now I long to be reborn; 
to find myself on the cliff edge, 
looking down at the raging sea, 
bracing myself for the jump.

I climbed too high, far too high, 
up through the clouds, into the raw, blue air.  
I let myself be elevated, 
and drowsed through my stratospheric rise to fame.

A sharp return to my hunting ground below 
is imminent.

I tell Blow-Daddy I’m leaving the city, 
with its temples to Mammon, its graveyards, 
and the billboards where they burned out my name 
in acid lights.  
I’m returning to the dark highway, 
to the footsore penury that made me what I am; 
and I’ll laugh when the clouds open up 
and the rain washes this sprayed-on lustre 
from my skin.

Talk’s cheap, sneers Blow-Daddy.  
So, no more talking, I say.  
Then I shoulder my pack and leave without another word.