THE LAST POET'S LAST POEM

THE LAST POET'S LAST POEM

How love and death are best defined
in terms of intelligence distilled into truth
matters little now that this world is gone

under Gondwanaland, and us too;
but at least we can say we lived our lives
to the full, stretched our potential, knew

the impunity of being true to ourselves, which
was only being what we dreamed we were.
At least we knew love under the stars,

dared to dream, to feel all, to see free.
No archaic-hearted words could fathom
the privation we seem to be about to forego –

and so the cold vacuity of space will grow
emptied of the human form and hang about
like a Mark Rothko painting on the wall of

God forever without any senses to perceive it,
to live it and take it in. – The irresponsible
matter of the elements can reign againe,

like a romance of chemicals and dust –
and I trust that silence will win – but I
thank you for the good times we shared,

the inspiration you gave me to write, though
all our poems were useless for the end
was always going to arrive, marrying

the prelapsarian and the eschatological,
into one ultimate terminal and end-point.
The good book says loss is the mother

of imagery, intimation with death breeds
new truth, but how we will ever know that now
I do not know, and would you like

to see my insect collection, and has
Pooh Bear found his inward God on a plane,
and shall we run away and have a jam?

 

◄ BLUE

THE MAD DOG SONG ►

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