Of uncertain time, my dilemma has
I know you all have waited so long.
Or at least, I suspect –
on further inspection – that respecting your
positions is way overdue.
My dilemma as *motto is the
question I always asked:
the y of my life
is the why I am loved.
Not when or where,
but now simply could it be Claire?
It’s a foolish notion, this asking
a foolish potion of thoughts and
fishy seams, like knotted
nets which appear to capture
dolphins of some kind of weirdly
“And struth!” you might exclaim,
as plain as the day,
when anything I say strikes one so
fanciful: and in that fancy,
I see your body strong, as it
stretches out singing that
song of love I wish we’d shared
so very much: dear me,
dear dare, oh my …
And when I see the steps you take,
as ciggie sits sharp between one finger
and thin other, I know that whatever
you might make of my feelings,
you will leave me
real reeling for the rest of my life.
You have made me forget,
in an evening of unspoken
rhymes – but not unspeakable! Oh,
never ever that … –
the memory of your mother:
that woman who
so hurt me.
And it’s true you know:
whether that was your intention,
I now never want to see her again.
At the cost of falling
besottedly in love with you, I have
lost all attachment to the
passion I once professed.
And whilst academic present is my
being right now, I still see your face
every minute of my life:
and every minute of my life I would
like to see
And now to be sincerely free,
I think you are clearly telling me
I must leave both the idea
of you and of me: my identity being
quite madly by this
rock, as I roll with the humanity
I have constructed out of [h]ours:
for what I see in you I would love
to be a reality,
and if only you spoke just once,
and if only you wrote just once,
and if only you texted me short
some thought you had,
I could proceed then to hang on
and gadgets galore – on Foucault–
like technologies, and personalities
and more – the
whole of my future
as imagined in my madness:
the excess of my enthusiasm
unbound by the ground
that feet (so
they tell us) must firmly stand on.
So really all I’m saying, dear Claire,
is that you not only
replaced in me and my strange soul
a grand but dangerous
affection for your mother,
an affection which had destroyed
all my capacity
to resist and be resilient,
to make movement
and just well just be,
you also managed – quite
amazing this, and this quite
manifestly handsome result of
handsome nature –
to allow me a goodness and
a gracious curiosity: at last,
the moment I thawed to
future hope; at last,
a willingness on my rusted part
to fail in the strange arts of
And so finally, quite ultimate
I must repeat, equally I must leave
behind me my past.
For the real sad part of all this story
is that only by saying goodbye
to my history can my future
begin to lay down future
And all this life lived together with
beloved ones must upend its
like celluloid unspooling.
And I begin to try to see for me
a better time,
and I feel guilty that
may be mine.
And so now I can tell you that
I do want my liberty,
as I do want to grasp
the beauty of my [he]art.
And whilst I do understand, fine
Claire, that your job as job is
job now done,
and that you have readily, cleverly
achieved your beautiful goal,
in this oft mad releasing me from the
prison of pain your mother did
concentrate, so capably
that rend, that before,
and that when,
still I would love it
if you and I could be friends true!
Do you understand and believe me in this?
Do you see why I might?
Do you realise how very much of your
I truly love?
Can you truly comprehend the
life you gave me back;
the reality you recovered for me;
the sensibility you make me now feel
the wonder of beauty
I no longer resist?
And so when this is over,
and of my emotions
will you – one day, please! –
explain to me exactly why you did what
you did do?