No more Love Songs [poem]
It’s official !
At last, romance is dead.
After aeons of prevarication,
I’ve had my fill of empty dreams,
false promises, unwanted luggage,
ultra-freaked-out BPD (or NPD),
or things not being what they seem;
and now I saw the welcome light.
At last, romance is dead;
and with one fatal booted blow
I got it in my line of sight and
kicked it soundly in the head.
It’s overrated anyway —
especially at this earthly time
when entropy takes precedent
permittedly (temporarily)
over logic and intelligent design.
So no more yawnsome love songs
will be vomited from here.
The Muse has whispered mute
but harshly in my ear: “Enough!
That bullshit’s not for you.
From now on, no more fantasies;
alone you now must persevere”.
(The colour of her words was blue).
So I jettisoned my pretty pen —
the one I purchased specially
with the salmon-coloured ink
to write my tender telegrams
(naïve pretentious fool I am!)
and stoic to the bitter end I sing:
“I’ll never write a song of love again”.
© Alan Morrison, 2015
The Naked Troubadour 