Have you ever heard that writers should never end a sentence with a preposition?
What do you think?
It’s effectively become a defunct rule, and in writing (especially in fiction), you can justify it as dialect.
I suppose, however, for the SATs and standardized tests, such things would actually matter. Other than that, I can’t fathom of a moment when ending your sentences with prepositions would result in some negativity.
Also, you could probably use such things in your writing to denote different classes of character. I once wrote a tiny piece where characters from the upper class were more “educated” and thus spoke in flawless grammatical form. The ones of lower classes were often annoyed with the upper class because some of their sentences were absurdly long in order to avoid ending sentences with prepositions.
I left the front door unlocked for you every night Ever since the time of our first conversation You left for a long time and stumbled inside You ran your hands across my chest reassuringly
You came closer to the door some days only to turn back You were scamming me, like that man who tried scamming others That man who piled imaginary children on the sidewalk You piled imaginary feelings on my porch and would stumble inside again
You’d wake up the next morning on my couch confused, some nights we were in the same bed. I didn’t want you near me anymore so I moved you.
The winter has come, I’ve grown cold The skin on my hands have wrinkled and turned to stone Each treatment making it worse Each one sets them aflame causing a burn
My nerves solidify, no feelings inside of me I lost my mind the day I was conceived Don’t hold my hand it’ll only crush yours Leaving you dead disappointed forever and more
I’am tired of coming and going An embracing hello and a kiss goodbye Coming home to no one but myself Leave me with these numb hands of mine Many times have I walked down Princeton’s barren hall
Each step by anyone, anything could be heard Everything I cared for gone, disappearing to anywhere Vanished from the room in this hall I sigh and continue in my lone steps
We’re still laughing over lore. Still talking about a stream of smoke in the head of a shelter tank, swimmingly bored. Swimming in monotony. Swimming in ponds where our knees scrape the bottom. And still, we swallow the surface.
We brought our boredom to the lights. Spoiled the city. Blind to the ocean. Deaf to the heavens. Carving a shut in symphony with memory’s masturbation.
I’ve talked it out. Doomed to be a spoiled child. A pupil in the eyes of forever. I knit the fire. I stared into the mirror. A prisoner to the past. A ghost to the present.
Put down your glass. Don’t raise a toast to your slaving bloodline now. Come to life. Walk the roads to Judah, tonight.
And I do walk upon Wan’s Dyke and I do survey the land and I did become the Reaper with my own bare hands. For I am Wodan, though, some call me Hermes, some call me Roman Mercury, god of cargos, god of weather, hanging God of boundaries, hanging God of Gibbet Hill, killing God of hidden doorways. Spinning the yarn from Wansdyke to Silbury spinning the taelbook, telling the tale. Telling the tellbook to all and sundry. Keltiberians and Irish Gael then I hear camp followers bellow afar their shrieking lament for Johnny Guitar. “Look to the farthest far horizon look to the bloodlust deepest scar look to the scattering Brythonic uprising for this be the wall of Johnny Guitar. This be the ditch that you shall die in here be the wall that I shall cry on. Ditch dug with antler and ox bone shovel. This rising wall that shades our ancient hovel.” Look to the north a quick mile yonder look to our Yggdrasilbury look to the Saxon chasing Viking look to the Norman chasing Saxon look to the German chasing German. German German German German. Here in the bloodlust deeper scar for here be the wall of Johnny Guitar. Play your gloom axe Stephen O’Malley sub bass clinging to the sides of the valley, sub bass ringing in each last ditch and combe. Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom. To rage in sound this valiant despair, doom and gloom as each a splendid pair. To rage in sound the valiant despair: Not Abraham, not Moses, and not Christ, neither Jove to whom we sacrificed, not Attis, not Mohammed, but to hilltop Thor. We rave and dance and weep and we implore: Look to the farthest far horizon. Don’t blame the messenger, don’t blame the messenger….For I am Death. So Ragnarock with me. For I am Doom so Ragnarock with me…
XXXIV
Bring me the head of whoever caused this jam in traffic Everyone points at who they want to see get their ass kicked Ignorant they are covered in wool
They let their heroes and leaders use them as rusty tools Bang boom more civillians dead, off with one of our heads Blood spills as pastries are sold to a fool
I swear I’m not dead, I’ve just been caught up in life.
If you want to know how I know I will be okay Without you I’ll tell you: the girl who plays guitar And sings like shooting stars outside The Applebee’s with a hat at her feet does not have you Emma Watson does not have you My mother, my father, my half-sister do not have you The A&P register 3 cashier with the lip ring, nose ring, Koi fish tattoo, sakura flower, curls of ocean down His shoulder does not have your name Inked across his heart Walt Whitman did not have you Odysseus did not travel 10 years to Ithaca for you You are not Gatsby’s green light across the bay Elizabeth Bennet does not marry you President Obama does not have you Shakespeare wrote you no sonnets Noah Calhoun doesn’t climb the Ferris wheel To ask you on a date Juliet does not kill herself for you Paris did not abduct you from Sparta and no Greek Army was assembled to retrieve you Pocahontas did not throw herself between the blades Of her father and you The spray-painter of planets on the sidewalk in Times Square does not have you Clementine does not hire Lacuna, Inc. to erase you from her mind The girl in the third row second seat from the window In my Psychology 100 lecture hall does not have you They are all fine without you
