should conjure memories of their past, back when her eyes were bright with love for him. Locke felt betrayed by himself . Each dream unreeled as slow torture: their first kiss, their first date, the first time they’d made love, and the first time she’d said I love you. It was terrible.
Locke sat down to write. It was his only escape, or at least he thought it was. Before, he’d written of social themes, relevancies re-formed in art for the reflection of the reader. Now, though, he could only write of her. He’d written nothing good in months.
Writer’s block? No, there was no such thing. Writer’s block was an excuse for writers who didn’t want to write. Locke always wanted to write. Mode, he thought.
Selfishness. I’m being selfish. Poetry was emotion—a personal one. But real poetry must always be relatable. Locke must change the mode of his vision. He must turn his indulgence into art, or at least try. God knew, nothing else was working.
He must transcribe how he felt in a way that was relative for the work.
But how?
Be honest.
Even now, he would do anything to have her back. But she didn’t want him back. He knew that—she scarcely spoke to him anymore. Where once he’d seen the brightest love in her eyes, he now saw only discomfort or dressed-up annoyance. Locke was a blight to her—that was how she felt.
But how do I feel? he asked himself again.
I still love her. I love her more than anything in the world, and I’d do anything to get her back. I’d do anything. I’d even wait forever.
Really? Forever?
Yes! he thought.
He began to type.
FOREVER by Richard Locke
I ascend in light, then I fall
In the ashes of this last curtain call.
There’s nothing else but love, you see,
And this beckoning siren that carries me
Into heaven or the saddest realm of nether.
And even though you’ve cut the tether
My love for you goes on forever.
Yes. That was it. That was how he felt.
He stared at the piece of paper. He saw black ink on white pulp transcended into an image of his truth.
Then he tapped out another, a gust of spontaneity:
What sad phantoms stalk the warrens of your spirit?
What pale shapes rise on angel’s wings?
Have you traded the chasm for resplendence?
Or have you stopped believing in all of those things?
The window darkened. His eyes flicked down at the picture of her: beautiful, resplendent, in love.
My love for you goes on forever.
A single tear crawled down his cheek.
Forever, he thought.
(ii)
Forever, the malefactor thought.
“I am forever,” he whispered.
“What?” the girl inquired. “Did you say something?”
He smiled and faintly shook his head. She giggled, quite childlike. She’d unbuttoned her bright vermilion blouse several notches. He could smell the sweet youth of her flesh. He could smell her heart.
I am oblivion, he thought.
He wore black, all silk; he shimmered in his own darkness. The heater kicked on and fluttered the dark-green drapes. He peeked out, frowning. San Francisco, he thought. An abyss. A canyon. Seamy light, crime, lust. What wonderful blood for a city. I’ll miss this city, but it’s time to move on, she’ll be northward, and we’ll find each other, and she will be mine again… forever… The lights looked like stardust in ebon streaks, through which tiny dots travailed—tiny dots that were human beings. How insignificant, the malefactor considered. He hadn’t been here in ages.
He’d only loved one woman in his ancient life. The girl, here, in the vermilion blouse and short black-leather skirt, was something less. No, he didn’t love her, but he rejoiced in her. She was warm. She was alive. She was food. How old could she be? Twenty? Twenty-five? Her vitality whispered to him. The malefactor sensed a deep and wonderful dichotomy: the absolute contrast of her youth and the sheer age of what she was. Strompet, he thought. Whore. The consideration impressed him. Her profession was perhaps
Locke sat down to write. It was his only escape, or at least he thought it was. Before, he’d written of social themes, relevancies re-formed in art for the reflection of the reader. Now, though, he could only write of her. He’d written nothing good in months.
Writer’s block? No, there was no such thing. Writer’s block was an excuse for writers who didn’t want to write. Locke always wanted to write. Mode, he thought.
Selfishness. I’m being selfish. Poetry was emotion—a personal one. But real poetry must always be relatable. Locke must change the mode of his vision. He must turn his indulgence into art, or at least try. God knew, nothing else was working.
He must transcribe how he felt in a way that was relative for the work.
But how?
Be honest.
Even now, he would do anything to have her back. But she didn’t want him back. He knew that—she scarcely spoke to him anymore. Where once he’d seen the brightest love in her eyes, he now saw only discomfort or dressed-up annoyance. Locke was a blight to her—that was how she felt.
But how do I feel? he asked himself again.
I still love her. I love her more than anything in the world, and I’d do anything to get her back. I’d do anything. I’d even wait forever.
Really? Forever?
Yes! he thought.
He began to type.
FOREVER by Richard Locke
I ascend in light, then I fall
In the ashes of this last curtain call.
There’s nothing else but love, you see,
And this beckoning siren that carries me
Into heaven or the saddest realm of nether.
And even though you’ve cut the tether
My love for you goes on forever.
Yes. That was it. That was how he felt.
He stared at the piece of paper. He saw black ink on white pulp transcended into an image of his truth.
Then he tapped out another, a gust of spontaneity:
What sad phantoms stalk the warrens of your spirit?
What pale shapes rise on angel’s wings?
Have you traded the chasm for resplendence?
Or have you stopped believing in all of those things?
The window darkened. His eyes flicked down at the picture of her: beautiful, resplendent, in love.
My love for you goes on forever.
A single tear crawled down his cheek.
Forever, he thought.
(ii)
Forever, the malefactor thought.
“I am forever,” he whispered.
“What?” the girl inquired. “Did you say something?”
He smiled and faintly shook his head. She giggled, quite childlike. She’d unbuttoned her bright vermilion blouse several notches. He could smell the sweet youth of her flesh. He could smell her heart.
I am oblivion, he thought.
He wore black, all silk; he shimmered in his own darkness. The heater kicked on and fluttered the dark-green drapes. He peeked out, frowning. San Francisco, he thought. An abyss. A canyon. Seamy light, crime, lust. What wonderful blood for a city. I’ll miss this city, but it’s time to move on, she’ll be northward, and we’ll find each other, and she will be mine again… forever… The lights looked like stardust in ebon streaks, through which tiny dots travailed—tiny dots that were human beings. How insignificant, the malefactor considered. He hadn’t been here in ages.
He’d only loved one woman in his ancient life. The girl, here, in the vermilion blouse and short black-leather skirt, was something less. No, he didn’t love her, but he rejoiced in her. She was warm. She was alive. She was food. How old could she be? Twenty? Twenty-five? Her vitality whispered to him. The malefactor sensed a deep and wonderful dichotomy: the absolute contrast of her youth and the sheer age of what she was. Strompet, he thought. Whore. The consideration impressed him. Her profession was perhaps
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