The Friday Poem: ‘My grief is like a never-ending anticipation of impending dooms’

A new poem by Ted Greensmith-West.

My grief is like a never-ending anticipation of impending dooms

The dark hand that lurks behind the curtain is like Dorothy in photonegative with snarled teeth and pigtails… and acts as the constant reminder that Cole is dead forever now, like dust.

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The chance of falling in love is as probable as capturing sunlight in a ravine that we wander through, past towering limestone cliffs and into the water with lungs full of sea.

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He leads you right up to the edge, before stopping suddenly and reminding you of all the times you inevitably read: “YOU DIE” in a pick your own adventure book, except this time, it’s for real: there is no flipping back the pages to get the right outcome. There’s no escaping it. My grief is like a never-ending anticipation of impending dooms:

Page 9: bomb blast.
Page 12: cancer.
Page 18: sucked into a combine harvester.
Page 69: you get what you bloody deserve.

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Salty air stings which literally cures my insides, a chiasm of waves ringing across. I’ll show up and I’ll stay, choosing to be alive as its own form of straitjacket rationale: no more paralysed reluctances.

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The call is coming from inside the house, you say. Cole will be calling you out of the blue to make it up to you and it’ll all be YOUR FAULT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The skinny man in leather hotpants and a hood turns to meet your gaze. If you run, turn to page 32. If you choose to stay, carry on reading.

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You were horrible to him, and he’s probably going to die soon. After all these years I’ve had to settle for the fact that I never had the chance to ask, ‘how deep does this hole actually go?’ and to find the answer, turn to page 87… I’ll find the tears falling down, down, down as Cole disassociates from everything and scatters his ashes on the bandstand, pointing to a vacuum cleaner and tapping his foot impatiently.

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I’ll try to find joy in the small things that despite these ridiculous circumstances sit in the hidden corners of my Life, on Life’s intolerable terms. Throw me down in a field of poppies and kiss me passionately, goddammit!! my hair only looks this good for 2 years past 30. If you’re going to up and leave you might as well give me that MGM photo finish! Pash me like you did behind the
bike sheds as they sprinkle asbestos flakes on our sleepy faces – not exactly what you had in mind when you asked for a ‘facial’, huh?

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OK, OK, I’ll accept that, now: I accept it all and show-up to Life. Mourning lost boys is something of a pastime of mine, and frankly it’s about time I gave it up, like how you eventually gave up cigarettes, and to see how that turned out, turn to page 98…

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I’ve constrained myself to escaping death, so: kisses my love, only sweet kisses. Something promising and green is glittering in the near distance.

He better be getting a big fucking funeral, mister! With all the trimmings…