An Extreme Case Of Pareidolia

A friend of mine said this to me once
It was quite a while ago
So I'm paraphrasing..

Here's what he said..

Oh I wrote this poem once too
It was a long time ago

He brandished a piece of air
And I asked at the air 

Only once

He nodded sagely

Only once
It didn't do anything for me..no offence but

it just wasn't me..
A bit pointless poems..

Although to be fair..it got me laid.. funnily enough..yeah yeah

She loved me for what I read out to her
I genuinely felt all of that..
all of that stuff for her..
And all those feelings just gushed right out
Almost like it wasn't me

I still think of her
You would have loved her too if you met her..
I hope wherever she is she is having a great life..
Those few weeks we spent together
They were just bliss
And the thing was
I'm sure at the time I knew it..

He trailed off wistfully
And I probably nodded

And replied

Yeah

And he probably affirmed

Yeah she really loved me for what I read out to her that day
Now..looking back..I wish..maybe..
Oh I know I can't now..
Long time ago..

His memories seemed to drift around us
Like a let-go balloon
Waiting for someone
To clutch its string
And pull it through golden fields..

But as I say poetry is like a time-waste for me..

So I tried to lightly console him

Oh but it got you a lovely girlfriend..

Yeah you're right you know
And it got me a holiday too
She invited me to stay at her dad's place in Saint Tropez
He had a casino and a yacht..

It was a bit embarrassing..

How so

Well she made me read my poem out to her dad
And I remember I said to him but I don't really write poems
And he said no don't worry I don't really either..He was a really cool guy..

He gazed at the window
Or maybe out the window
And I'm trying to recall for you which
But so sorry I can't remember
So I gaze at my mobile phone
Where this poem is gazing back at me
And it doesn't seem to know either..

So I read my poem out
And he shouted bravo in some
French words
And we all laughed
Just all laughed
And he gave me three-hundred euro-quid
to bet down at his casino
Where I won my year's travelling money
And I bought that evil motorbike..
Never again..

I'll never write a poem again..
Not sure what you see in it all..

He looked again at his empty hand of poem

So did I probably

And then
He said

The nineteen-nineties were mad weren't they
Looking back now they feel so..so destined..
I dunno..

Probably a few moments of silence..

And they were so pre-9/11 in every way..

I probably nodded an hmmn yeah I think I know what you mean

Before asking

In the past did any of your paintings ever land you a girlfriend

And he replied

..Hmm that's a good one..
Oh I suppose so
But only in an indirect free kick kind of way..
But painting

It's just me..
I just love it
You should try it sometime..

And I probably said something like

I know what you mean
Poetry for me is painting
I paint through my thought-shapes pictures of words..
It's also something I just have to do sometimes
It isn't for anything..

He concluded..

And that's our problem
There's no hope for either of us then mate
We should have grown up by now
The fact that we don't do this for anything is the scary bit..

And I'm sure we both laughed
And one of us probably looked out the window
While the other probably gazed at their empty hand of poem
And I can't recall which one of us did which..
And we lost touch with each other shortly afterwards..