Fictive

Fictive

You had a penchant for archaic insults

I artlessly and wholly without confident poise

contracted the invectives and resourcefully

worked them into hymns about you being good.

It was no minor requisite to be close to your heated side

a ravening need that marked the preferment of the watershed.

It is accurate that we were the strangest of bedfellows

passing through a shroud mistaken for a liar’s length of love.

Your selfish motive made every bewitching second fictive

my countenance fell as you broke away one lazy limb at a time.

Eithering dreams?

I carefully contemplated the weight of it all

your inconceivable forgery incited acts of vehemence

like my vandalising covers of romance novels

like my making friends with unfortunates

like my meditating on the hurried expiration of your face.

I assembled the artifacts of our wasted days

I wrote the nights down into the slowest of pages

the most downhearted attempt to fill the silence

to forget the strong current of your sideways beauty

and the sound of your voice singing slightly out of tune.

I walk with pilgrim’s progress as if I might accrue joy to replace placated despair

still there is this nagging feeling that my insides do not belong to me

either a complicated cautionary anecdote or a reluctant compromise to forget.

A single act of make-believe depleted my patience for the strains of love.

Fictive.
Indicative.
Vindictive.

Eithering dreams?

**

A friend challenged me to a writing exercise just now, using the word 'fictive'.  Curled up with some tea, a warm sweater, a half empty box of tissue to keep my runny nose clean and the new Carleton Stone record spinning, I wrote.  Well, I typed.  Same thing I suppose.  In a fresh word document, the word 'fictive' became the title and a poem came.  I pondered prose but I didn't resist what came.  If a poem materializes I never mind too much.  I got lost in the music and banged out this poem, untouched, in about 40 minutes.  Boy, after only really writing my homage to PSH, it felt good to flex the creative muscles and get a poem down.  I am *still* pondering the lives of Alf and Josh.  I *will* get it started, I promise.  

But for tonight, an exercise, which in my mind is better than no writing at all, even if it's just foppy gloop.  It's writing, words, from me.  That counts.

Two more work days and it'll be time for a blast to the past via a Platinum Blonde show.  I hope my sniffles and sneezes had expired by then.  I've really been looking forward to the show.  Fingers crossed.

Time to top up my tea and recline.

In propinquity,

Nic