“… [a]musing …”

This is a poem on a 

musing of sorts:

amusing for you, but

wicked for

me; but then maybe not 

so; or

maybe wicked indeed, but as

young would declaim an

ever so proud virility; would 

find it within 

themselves to proclaim 

their grand kick of 

imbibing,

imbued, undeniable proof.

And this musing

I muse on is no longer

a wrong: for although

I have spoken so 

much of 

our selves

and our elves, and

intimate stuff which

you may find in its

telling so infirm and

tough: the rough-

er side of ‘im and

‘er as man and woman 

battling erringly strong,

and beyond all damn

rescue now, and

how … but even then it’s

no time to protect us adults 

from us adults, no time at 

all: you have, 

after all, a right to defend

at many costs, it is

true, but equally 

I have 

art’s duty

to attack outwith 

senses: to attack all 

pretension and the

easy of half-

truths: the ruling of

roosts from the rueing 

of times and

moments not snatched,

and life left outside 

fun: the hum of quite 

immoderate routine. 

And so you three

strange women have

indeed mused me

much, as I have touched 

with strange perceptions 

the privacy of your 

much.

And although you can

damn me and unman 

me and harm the

essential view of all 

viewers in the

lieu which love

abandons, I still will

go assert, and assert and

assert, that the three

of you all, M, K

and dearest C, have mused me 

so much, so specially 

much, in 

so many different

ways I simply refuse to

accept that here art has 

no place: for 

the race to 

the line has been fine,

I do feel: fine and graceful 

and – above 

all – a 

ball of weirdsome 

heres and fears 

taken.

And so if you’re still quite 

unable

to do battle with my

wit, or feel it is 

clear that unwittingly

I’ve gone and hurt far too 

deep and to the quick

of your souls and your 

hearts and your wholes, and

what makes you the persons

you are, then let us 

try pact an honourable exit

from this stage I have

made and unmade with

my texting: if there is any

value at all in what I’ve

sung, let us build a

grand tool to help redress

the balance of

the inequity which

hurdles across our shared

humanity: let us make of

our shared joys the 

toys which will

free the future of

our planet from the 

sorrows of this

rock.

Let us neither disgrace 

nor face down each

other yet, but use what we

have done, as 

musketeers of this

language and

of our diversifying seeings, 

to make us all so much,

so very much more

… in the backyard of

poverty let us finally 

be

won.





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