“… and the man I honest want to be …”

The sense which is absent in absence of

lover has made me move forwards

in so many things: and although I still 

wish I spent night in the

arms, and the hugs and tugs, and tiny murmurings 

of desire, maybe you were right

to withhold all such life from me: maybe

my fate is quite simple: to be a repository 

of artistic 

endeavour, and never to fully delight

in the touch of a woman inspired by

the being I might be, were the being 

I might be to persist.

And so in the same breath and the same

technical act, I am condemned only 

to live a life of imagining wildly, and to

creation from scratch, and to pretending 

I care not at all 

for that ball of life I have had

strict taken away, the day I did lose it to 

strife.

And if an ideal way of saying and being

ever could be mine, I’d 

reserve the

right to write and rhyme, and

at exactly the same time, fuck you 

kindly, or roughly, or whatever

we alighted on,

or any which way that living together

in the same space and time would

wish and require us to act.

Yes, I do have to accept that a life of withdrawal,

of ascetic achievement and solitary

denial, is not my path of ideal at all:

could never be what would 

drive me 

to live for your shawl 

and your call, and your beautiful voice,

and the madness of your

occurrences, and the 

occurrences of your 

bad 

glorious, and your

terrifying good, and the looks and the

glances of lips leading on, to

other dark places where spaces come close,

and reduce me

to the man I honest want to be.

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