And so it began to clarify itself –
like some chemical mixing-
of a residue
quite out of date.
It stretched much further back
than anyone could think.
And as the stink got bigger,
and as the cruelty grew,
and as more people around you
so the need to hide the obviousness
from I, myself and me
became greater than the duty
to be sincere.
And so some are on my side,
I am clear.
But too many believe they know
what’s better for me;
too few believe any more
in my right to my dignity and pride.
And so now I choose: and the choice
has to be clear.
You go not with the cousin – my once
beloved C – who, quite secondly,
simply has acted on behalf
of the wealth
she so unambitiously does covet.
You go not even with the cousin quite first
(the one you do treasure,
not the one you long ago had
the stenchful measure of),
however she feels – quite kindly –
she must act.
And so you never will darken the doorstep
of K, and you never will
speak again to your brother T – the one who fucked her
as his lover,
and then spent the next decades,
working out ways
to score your body over and over, he did;
with the bastardly intent of
men awful bad again.
For in places near and far,
for some reason all these people
back and forth
and silently toward you,
to finally convince you their ontology
But the thing about ontology
is you can’t lend or borrow
My ontology is mine, and will never
quite be yours –
however close you once believed
you might become
to the me
even I truly wanted to see.
So listen up, you three horsepeople
(now it could be four,
but let’s say for the moment
it really ain’t) of
this ever so messy eclipse,
that slowly starts to re-
suit my life:
if it’s a choice between the
flying freedoms of Foucault
and the liberties much
of people like yous – K, T, and C
I’m meaning (let’s
leave still treasurable other cousin
out the frame for the
moment) – then
remember this now
and remember this fine:
I am now with Em & Co,
and the people
who excite my brain.
They are giving me space
to become what I want: not running me
circles to confuse and dismay.
Last year if you’d tried
I would have been yours for ever – such
an ever my dear; you dearest, sexiest,
but today, this month, in eight days or eleven,
or any heavenly number
we’re presumably going to need,
I will be going to Dublin to start the rest
of my life;
and never will you see me again.
And the difference is that:
yous with the wealth think you know best;
yous with the health think you test fair;
yous with the selling power think you make out;
but what yous with all the stuff
sorted so well
don’t realise is exactly where I’m at.
I yearn for the liberty to make myself new:
I don’t want a stale
reconversion so boring
truly passed and old you
believed last year
to be so bold.
And all you did offer me was a joining together
with a woman – your mother – so much
sadder than all the sad women who’ve
hung onto me.
And then you tried all your tricks to make me
mad as a hatter.
But it’s over that game, now.
Oh how it’s now utterly bad and over.
And so my life with my strife
will separate – good
or bad – and I shall find a new woman;
entirely from my future,
from my past.
And maybe one day I shall blow yous out
the water; and maybe one
day I shan’t.
But either way, I know sure now I shall be
free of all those
jealousies you’ve expressed
so dreadful sore – like mother’s
milk, gone sour – over the body I am,
have been so long and trad,
and now grow
quite fab as I choose;
over the body you’ve fought and
never properly taught
Never properly made it the kind of
which would’ve won me true over,
and which in June would’ve
worked, just so well.
And perhaps, after Foucault,
and Emma & Co,
I shall create this schizophrenality –
and just show
the world that
all that wealth and health and nous –
that C last year bewildered me with,
on the best Bloomsday birthday
of my misery-laden life –
means far less to the people I really
should love to value
than those souls ever so
bad who I’ve gone
and foolish peopled
on such weirdly curious texts
as the ones
so near to yous
I do still manage to write.