Lurgee

‘I wrote a poem about her around Christmas 2009, although I was a bit drunk at the time I can remember writing the poem clearly.’ I looked at my single audience member to ensure he was listening before I continued, ‘I forgot all about it but remembered I’d written it when I was off work ill, it was odd, my thoughts of everything good about her began to disintegrate after a while. I re-read the poem and found myself looking at the words but I wasn’t sure what any of them meant anymore.’ Dave looked at me curiously as the last words trailed to a whisper on my lips; his eyes seemed to lose a little focus in the confines of the dingy bar. I’d been telling him about the girl, not really knowing what I hoped to achieve in doing so.

‘What made you write the poem in the first place?’ he asked me. I began to wonder why I was even telling him the story and I had to think about it for a bit before going on, ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been one for writing poems about girls; my subject matter is usually abstract – I thrive on the stifled necessity of existence, consistently drawn by a complex narcissism to the ugly. In my opinion, things of beauty usually speak for themselves and require little further description…’

Dave gave me an odd look again and waited for me to continue, ‘I think it’s about someone getting under your skin when you least expect it, then having to deal with it and rationalise it within yourself: it’s about how you become weak, how you become prone and the ways someone else can make you feel bad about yourself.’

‘If she made you feel so bad about yourself, why didn’t you just walk away from it? Surely it would have been easier?’ It was my turn to look baffled, I allowed my thoughts collect and churn in my head before going on: ‘I thought I had done her so much wrong, so much harm that I wanted to make amends for all of it – I wanted to prove I’m a good person and that thorny words soaked in alcohol mean nothing. None of it made any difference, she accepted my apology on the surface, and apparently, everything is ok. I keep trying to move forward but it always stalls and really, what was there isn’t there anymore.’ I’ve finished my beer so take a long pull of the Glenmorangie in front of me and keep my eyes on the table.

‘Did you try? Did you really try? Were you sincere and did you tell her what this was doing to you?’ I was twirling the Whisky around in my glass watching the oily water cling to its sides; I raised my eyes and looked at him, noticing for the first time how badly his hairline had receded. ‘I told her everything, well almost everything, but opening up to her just made things worse – it seemed to awaken the notion of the degree of control she had over me in her conscience. I guess some people just don’t have the emotional maturity to deal with the truth…’

‘That doesn’t make any sense…’ he tells me, ‘well it makes perfect sense to me, she barely treats me as if I’m human these days, it’s a silly manipulative mind-game – devaluation I think it’s called, designed to make the affected party feel worthless and insignificant, bouts of the silent treatment followed by periods of acting normally again. The trick is to keep the other person on their toes by constantly making them wonder what they’ve done wrong in the hope that they’ll keep grovelling, crawling back…the whole thing is pretty masochistic.’

‘Oh yeah, I see where you’re going with this – reminds me of an ex-girlfriend of mine, I got shot of her pretty sharpish, but you, why are you clinging to this? You realise that there is nothing you can do and it’ll only get worse?’ Dave had a curl of a grin at the corner of his mouth now, smug, like he’d just cracked the enigma code. ‘I know that now, it took me a while to realise, I was so full of fear and doubt about things I might have done to her, but I realised it wasn’t me – she needs hurt in her life to cling to. I’m ready to walk away for good now, it’s time to concentrate on the people who have proved time and again that they are there for me unconditionally…’

I’m twirling my drink again, enjoying the feel of the slippery glass under my fingers, ‘Good!’ Dave exclaims, his trickle of smile breaking into a fully-fledged grin, ‘but one thing…if you realised this already then why did you need to speak to me about it?’ I’m a bit sheepish about answering this, ‘well…’ I say, ‘it’s more to do with the poem…although I don’t know what it means anymore …it’s really good …definitely one of my better efforts…. but it’s a false memory of an idealised person that didn’t really exist. I don’t know what to do with it, it’s wrong to destroy art…’

‘It’s your creation, Gav – you need to decide whether it continues or ceases to exist, that’s all I can tell you, the choice is yours. Anyway…I’m going to the bar, same again?’ I nod my approval at this and ponder the problem until he returns. ‘My God!’ he says, looking with surprise at my face, ‘You’re grinning from ear to ear!’ I realise I am, and I feel good, cold German beer slips down my throat like honey.


***


When I’m back in my flat later that evening, I take the Moleskine journal I penned the poem in from the bookshelf and locate the page it is written on. I remove it, tenderly I suppose, from the journal with a gentle tearing motion. The paper feels strange and oily under my fingers, I sit on the couch, light a cigarette and read it over a couple of times. These were once beautiful words: abstract, ill fitting and raw together in a jumble that made sense to me before when I was weaker. I continue to look at the page for a while, noting the lack of resonance the words now have, they are just dull scribbles on a piece of paper.

I crumple it up, put it in the ashtray which I then place upon the sill of the open window. I take my lighter and gingerly set fire to one of the corners poking out from the messy, compacted ball, it catches and begins to burn, I watch the smoke pour out the window, washing the incoherency, fear and doubt into the night sky on a gentle breeze. The burning smell blows back in and hits me and I’m reminded of scrunched up newspapers used to set fire to piles of autumn leaves – I love the autumn, for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well. It’s summer now, but it will pass soon enough.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTip94vtNVM