“Wars Poetica”

“Wars Poetica”

Halls, not a lounge, not a fancy room
Just a hall, where I first uttered a word to you
Just in a hall, where I planned on asking you
The moment already imagined in my head
The moment you’ll say not no, but yes
And we grab a bite to eat
Or a cup of coffee
To get to know each other
To make eyes at one another
You’re a bit shy and quiet
So I take the initiative to lace words
Into a delicate sentence
You’ll be impressed at my word play
I’ll know that I planned it, but still meant it
So I’ll say:

I’m a dreamer wanting power to make a difference
Wondering if one person can achieve it
Doubting if that one person could be me
I don’t think this makes me insignificant
If anything, these truths in coexistence
Collide in a beautiful display of pyrotechnics
Fighting for complete dominance

(Ooh, that’s good. Just ask her!)

There’s that Whitman
Oh how he thinks of himself!
Though I don’t sing the song, or walk the walk
For myself
I’ve always found more purpose in being
For someone else
Becoming their voice
And only if many ask me to sing for them
Could I ever contain multitudes

(Should I sing for her?)

There’s that Prufrock
The caricature of pathetic
Manifestations in Eliot’s head
As I make one thousand calculations
And countless indecisions
Thinking of those women that come and go
Hoping one day they’ll know
I fully intended to talk to them

(Would she even talk to me?)

The battle rages on
Of course, in my head
Camp Whitman sings his song
Camp Prufrock questions questions to death
The explosions of grandeur souse
The scuttling fractured prawns
In the bottomless, voided, body of water
My identity, a mere pawn
No singing sirens chant
The calling counter-song

(Notice me!)
(You aren’t worth it)

My revisions sprawl across this page
                                                  and away from this page
Back on again
I write my songs to find a voice
Not create one
All’s been created long ago
And all can be lost
In time’s ebb and flow

(Those women that come and go)

In my dwindling scintillating moment
Of infamy I only write the words
I planned to say in my head
I can only disappoint you
you won’t be anything her father said
All I really want is a cup of coffee
And the chance to get to know you
you’re stuck in your dreams she said
And one day I’ll sing for you
Not the song of myself
Nor the song of you
The song of us
The peaceful camp for two

Some women will come and go
you’ll never get over her she said
But I know
          she’s not another lover, she’s my mother, and she’s dead!
I could make you happy

“smile and say cheese!”
          *shutters close*
                    a big flash wiping the memory clean

What was I thinking, dammit!
Things were better in my head
So old Pruf and Whit leave with
Field to their backs, and off to bed
One finding that he lives to see tomorrow
A victory in itself
So he whistles a tune by himself
The other cursing
You may have won the battle but not the war!
But of course I know, always the spectator
Prufrock’s one true power,
In a fight featuring lack of confidence
No one else stands on par.

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