When …

When silence is said instead of saying stuff clear …

When communication breaks instead of connecting a hear …

When people have other people in their lives and thrives and loves …

That’s the “when …” you should attend

Instead of attending your “… then”.


And if I committed the crime of interfering

And busybodying

And assuming that anything could be true and for you,

Could be that me and too, even: even that for Chrissakes …


And so remember they called me for so long a cracked head:

A cracked head and a cracked soul: the foolishness of bold.


A man who dumbly saw just unjust delusion.

A man who never righted the pleasures

Of be.


A reason enough to revise every judgement he made about

Life as he saw it; about this thing

Called … well … what?


And what is this thing he knows nothing about?

What can it truly inscribe?

How can he really describe what no one can ever?

How in fact can anyone say what he says is quite wronger

Than what they have gone,

And said, and done



Because of course it’s impossible

To say otherwise.

He may, after all, be as foolish as they claimed:

Never wise, never able to see the world as it

Stood really.


But then who ever can define this “really” thing?

Who ever can make the ding of the

Dong toll accurate enough

For the women and men who attempt to love:

To love in true beauty,

And do?


So he will make that call, because clearly – duty bound –

He now surely is.

But he understands the grand fall

From grace it will lead to,

And the traceless path

He must finally commit

As he gets of that fence:

The fence of his bare


And though he’s no longer afraid of losing all else,

And he’s not of a mind any more to resist,

Nor resit examination daily

Of loveless relationship,

Of unkindly citizenship,

Of fatherhood knocked sideways by prejudice of other,

He now does realise that the nearer he gets

To discovering the truth of the man he’s always been,

How it’ll hurt so much to see

He is as mad as mad can be: as mad as that tattered tapestry of sad

He has weaved across so many years

Of heres and theres:

Of years of right tad and right bad.


And as our story-site now fills myopically this e[i]ther

He cannot reject the ultimate destination.

Soon there will be no room, no physical space,

No gigabytes, no IO wild,

To swoon and to sing

The things that did drive him

For so long in this bring

He has gifted you.


So although he must now make that phonecall of truth

It’s with heavy-laden heart

And no knowledge of real soothsayer: all his

Ideas and his thoughts and his hopes and

Desires maybe stories, like flags,

So homely and proud, which he

Would wrap around his being

Not as love conquered all, but simply

As his loneliness paced 

the race he stumbled on …

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