So this is what the end looks like,
an ancient mattress on the floor,
a yellowed towel, sweaty sheets,
floorboards that splinter into my feet
on each of these last mornings,
the dark and early hours.
So this is what the end smells like,
cigarettes and dog piss,
metro sweat and pizza dough,
model perfume and wet, steaming asphalt.
And it sounds like a rusty fan
blowing onto these creaky joints,
like violins played by progidies,
a language I’ve only half grasped,
train wheels and angry junkies, jungle calling,
smoke on the water and purple haze,
see you soon, just ciao for now.
But what does the end feel like?
I think sad above all else
but the end always is, in one way or another.
Leaving poorer than when I arrived,
older, tireder, madder,
still waiting for my little bit of success, my break,
and I’m leaving alone.
Not much has changed on the surface
but my depths are full,
my mind ringing with days
and nights I can’t forget,
friends and loves I’ll carry always,
this other way, maybe a better way,
the understanding of I and what I need
to keep this flow alive.
So I ask again, how does the end feel?
And I think serene,
I think hot,
I think glorious,
maybe because this
isn’t really the end,
even if the circle closed
with the number twenty-four,
with California,
with another bounce
into the unknown
as rain fell hard
landing in London.
