When l[o]ve turns s[our] [hate]

When people who plan grand plans which include others

like me

are thwarted by free will, the will of

the free, then being quite fair and being quite

just is

so just beyond them: and that moment, like horizon, is when love

turns sour hate.


And in my time in fair Dublin, the past week just under,

I’ve seen my own love turn to hate:

a process which has shamed me, and famed me

notorious, in the eyes

of the people who once loved me.


And although it is wrong that such hate I should feel,

and although I have wronged all three

women who’ve occupied my life – like brazen

infiltrators of love, almost angels

from some place really

weird above –

and so have occupied this time in my life not only to

date but also to this how, there does come a

time when


hate must be listened to, before it’s too late to

act wisely.


For hate also has wisdoms: and yous knew it might


the happen-

stance of standing on guard over obsession

unbecame the plain man at heart

I actually am; there is nothing very special

in the soul I do own: nothing very special at all.

All I want is a cool fuck

and a few words of desire,

and a kindly exchange of amused and witty

tongues, as ones and twos of touchings

and bracings do bring our bodies



And so the wisdoms of such a sour hate as

mine expressed – never above in hierarchy,

always below in ignominy – like milk of

angry mother, like parent possessed of unearthly

aggressions, do run something like this: do run

something like these:

once ignored by object of

an inappropriate yet truly felt affection,

an object which may be place,

an object which may be person,

the anger of rejection is so very blinding in its

mace, as it batters and hurtles and bewilders

the face of the object’s uncertain and

hurting disgrace, that nothing will seem right

this time: nothing will seem



And so now I have lost two grand women out

of this anger misused, and out of this love turned to


and unburied lies.

And a third who was the woman I once married

and felt one with, before the day

of the grandest rejection of all,

also begins to acquire and forge a special

hate, too late to any party I recall.


But the size of it is such I understand the real

lessons too: hate is like blood cells of

white: it acts in an immunological way.

And my anger with Karen and my anger with Claire,

and my anger with Marisa, now forging such a

weary retaliation over too many

years re-

membered, is my body

and my soul and my

heart and my life saying:

“Goodbye to all ye viruses of strife!”


And although the viruses in question

may be fairly self-inflicted,

the formula I now need is the love

of the many over the love

of the intimate: my essence is

promiscuous: and that’s who I am.


And if only I’d known this, I’d have many more

friends: and the bends of resurfacing from

a lifetime of isolated manhood are

extraordinary in their perceptions: those

terrifying binds of

a family of beautiful children, and of a wife who

fears loss even as

loss has been cost of the daily bread and blatter of that or-



wherever coffee-ridden chatter: and that


chatter which has taken up

our lives in place of the fun we could’ve had

for such a long time together and apart.


And so when I say goodbye forever to Karen

and Claire, and my own very ex-brother for

intervening as he should not have done,

I do it not

out of the blindnesses of hate, but rather out

of its very wisdoms, the

clearest of all signs.

And as I prepare to repeal the life

led for so many years, an auto-piloted

unawakened treading of

ever so watery grave, I realise that my future lies

in never committing to anyone: the lessons of

my hate not telling me too late that

the fucks I need

to enjoy my life

belong to people and places in moments

and chases, not

duties tied up



contractual strife.

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