In the end, I dunno – but is that a crime?

In the end, I dunno.

But kinda, now, I don’t mind.

And mebbe it’s a crime,

and mebbe it’s not.

On the other hand,

who cares!

You can stare at me weird,

at the little beard

left, and truthfully,

I am open to it all.

And maybe when happy,

my art won’t be good;

but even if it ain’t,

for some it still might 

resonate somewhat;

in some way, and got,

I never could

predict I’d still 

be and have.

So let’s learn to just go,

and flow with this 

go, and fight and fuck

when the opportunity 

presents, and like and 

just love, when

the opportunity ain’t that.

And just be and do

and rue and that,

and sit and see

and occasionally

touch.

For the end of the world

ain’t what we feel:

and what we feel, whilst

real, ain’t lost in any place

any more.

And if one day

you kiss me 

so may, 

my might will

jump a foot or 

more: as what’s in store

will love me fine,

and mebbe still 

produce that rhyme

I search, and gift,

and finally 

leave as 

reminder of

your wonder grand, 

and gorgeous things,

at last.

when I am good …

when i am good

and this lasts as it should

i shall no longer be able to rhyme.

 

but if this is the condition

of your kind of volition,

of your acts of kindness and love,

 

then finally i am happy to move

firmly on from being a poet

to being something other than this.

 

for what you showed me

that last bloomsday was a prediction

of fact:

 

art will last forever

but the artist

not so long.

 

and when he finally sees the

woman of his real means,

and his dreams then become

 

a virtual wondrous and real

of formula two, no longer

one, as you did what you clearly

 

had to do that month, and you did

so very right, and you did so very true,

i then realise that the might of your

 

astonishing grey cells

 

is precisely the place i now want to be,

more than any photography

or poetry i might nurse.

 

give me a task of beautiful complexity

to suss, and i shall follow you

always, forever, dearest c.

 

Nudge me, touch me, love me, life me

And he thought it and it was true:

you are the me I always

wanted to be.

 

And he thought it and it was you:

and you made him the man

he had never seen.

And he thought it and you life-

d him: and although you couldn’t wife him,

he wondered even so.

And he thought it and then he asked it:

touch me and then nudge me

and then love me, and then life me:

 

and if not that much, too much,

at least a tiny mo’.

 

And so then he thought it, and then he

emboldened it: it was time to

stop the rhymes

 

and start

living good.

 

And he thought it and he wanted it:

and they were no longer needs

that made him bleed.

And he thought it and he said fuck it:

and he knew very soon

he would risk it.

 

And he thought it and he ran with it:

and though he knew he

be getting it

 

wrong,

 

ready he was – again –

to sing that song!