Ya sick of this yet? Poetry fic evolution, stage four.

[hmpf]

I said it would go in the drawer now, but, I dunno. Just needed to do something less frustrating than checking footnotes on Slovakian archaeology for a quarter of an hour or so, so I took the machete to my poem-fic-thingie. This is the result:



And then it's suddenly very simple:

his feet slapping on concrete, the last step,
the last,
pushing off with all his power:
only the great blue
and gravity,
no space for anything but joy in this sky,
too late,
(a relief),
too late for regrets,
a change of mind;
a relief
to feel the air rush past,
to know this is it,
it's over, it's done, he's done what he could,
he's done his best,
and his mum will understand, she understands,
she will -

[Ruth Tyler understands: that she's failed him; that she failed to see the sky waiting at the back of his eyes; understands that she doesn't matter; and she'll go on, of course, she's done it before, once, twice, she can do it again, pick herself up another time and go on, she needs to believe that, and sometimes she does believe that, sometimes – and then she stands by a mound of earth that's still fresh and she knows that this time is different, and she straightens her back, raises her chin, and there's no place to go, no place to go at all.]

- and he's falling,
going,
going,
almost gone,
it's over already,
it's over,
sky gone,
only ground
jumping up,
rushing up,
(a relief),
and there's nothing here for him,
nothing, nobody -

[Maya has had a lunch date, another pointless exercise in rebound, and of course anyone should be better than Sam, Sam was unsalvageable from the first, and yet, and yet - and there's an ambulance in front of the building, a small crowd, a colleague turns, sees her, moves to apprehend her, and she knows, she just knows; she trips, runs, pushes through the cluster and reaches the centre just as someone says 'it's over', sinks to her knees as frantic activity is replaced by a stillness that radiates outwards, takes his hand and feels a hand on her shoulder and says, to no one in particular, 'I'm his girlfriend', surprised.]

- there's
no way to turn back,
no reason,
this is liberation,
this is -

the last millisecond takes forever,
a glorious, golden eternity,

then
the ground's there and
things burst, tear and break
his blood's free to fill spaces inside him
as his brain quietly gives out

and that's that.



(There should be a special word for that uneasy feeling you get when you read your own writing and a bit of it just sort of sticks out and nags at you because it doesn't quite work yet.)

(Edited to remove some more words.)

(Edited for yet another minor change.)

Comments

[beccatoria.livejournal.com]

Hooray for machetes!

I'm assuming you got rid of the uneasy feeling of the bit that sticks out? Cos I can't currently find it if it's still there, so if it is at least that's one vote of confidence? :)

[ex-emeriin213.livejournal.com]

Would it help at all if I said I thought this was pretty-near perfect? The imagery is beautiful and I love the sound of his damaged sense of mind and then his Mum and Maya proving him wrong. And I'm sorry, I really do suck at reviews.

[jantalaimon.livejournal.com]

Very nicely done. I haven't read the previous drafts, so I didn't witness the evolution from whatever you'd initially written. But you're probably your own worst critic; I know I tend to be, I know most people are. This, however, is lovely.