Why I rejected your offer last Bloomsday / The madness of a love based on art

You offered me much 


committing a

tad: it was all so 

very cryptical and weary.

And I was tempted so

greatly in exchange 

for stopping writing by

the life of full

joy you let me see

might be mine.

But firstly you refused

to clarify with

clarity; and secondly 

the highly undignified 


of love, the scraps of

a decade quite

wasted out there, 

was what you obviously 

thought quite enough 

for a man you

clearly considered much

weaker and in need

than the man

you have before you today.

And so to couple

that offer half-baked, 

bizarre and murky,

unmade like some one-night


with a reversal to a

woman who had hurt my

soul so very much,

was in retrospect 

to rub

the salt of deathly 

sees and hearings into

wounds I’d long 

desired to heal,

without the wheels you

desired to grind

down a me apparently lost.

And you thought it all

invented; and you

believed it all foreseen;

and you considered

my life a sequence of

idiot’s dreams.

But in my determination 

to ask of life far more

than the cast-off you

wanted me 

resigning myself

to, for the benefit of her

survival, and maybe

one day even her thrival, you

were clearly prepared

to sacrifice my joy

on the altars of

familial woe.

So let’s get it

straight: let’s take

a brief shot at making

it easier for you to

get where I’m at: I want

and demand that my

future is new, and once

if you’d wanted … 

… well, it

could’ve been you, and

once if I’d not realised in

time before rhyme, my 

future might

instead have consisted of 

a reversal to 

moments long

gone: the madness of

a love based on an exchanging 

of souls; the madness of a love

based on art.

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