accommodation / how it is endingly rung

accommodation is the reason i’m leaving home:

i need to roam much further afield;

i need to seek new pastures unseen;

i need to read books you’d never even open;

i need to – fuck me! – be able to use a microwave at six

without your fuckity-wit intolerances

and comebacks and sad-ass comments.

 

it ain’t just the strife;

it ain’t just the kids,

with their arrogance and focus

of youth, god’s truth!

it’s me too,

to blame i mean: i’ve confused you all

with my accommodating self – everything you needed

was placed upon a shelf by me

in easy reach of your evermore grasping hands.

 

and so now my house – it really ain’t;

and so my room – its itty-bits overwhelm my capacity

to think and sink into pleasurable dens

instead of into the mires of a terrible unsired sex.

 

i need my freedom as much as you need me penned:

but the penned i love is on these pages;

whilst the penned you love is inside your cages

of no, and fuck off, and go.

 

only when you say go,

you really mean stay;

and when you say fuck off,

you don’t want me to at all:

so how confusing

is that, old matie?

how confusing is that?

 

and all this time i accommodated you all – in the name

of house, but also

of house mouse: timorous and sad and wholly unbad …

… for that’s what I was all this time for all of you:

a man who never became;

a mat to step on floorly;

a resource to be called upon whenever there was need.

 

a father who did,

and a husband you never fucked with the pleasure

of real measure,

and who you never approached in leisure,

and who you never sensed as woman to man,

and who you never cared to ask for

one hug …

 

and so now i must leave you in the grandeur of knowing

i did everything i could to stop this going i’m committing;

for i accommodated all of you so goddamn much

that the day i actually do decide to leave

you find yourselves unable to believe i have the balls.

 

for you cut them off me the first night of our marriage:

and that i shall never now be able to forgive.

 

time enough have you had

to be the woman who could’ve flowered:

who could’ve grown way beyond the cruel limitations

of parental family.

but you chose – now i realise – exactly not to do so:

and so that is the end,

and the beginning,

for me.

that is how, precisely how, you’ve rended the husband

from his strife: a life which once looked to be thrive

above all

and – ultimately – is nothing more than survive.

 

for i am not aiming to sustain such existence:

there is more to this life i have

than idiotic subsistence:

there is love and sex and touch and thought,

and ought and give-a-fuck-about,

and every shade of doing and being

quite in between the wonders her charms

might once have armed.

 

so let me underline:

your games are no longer fine enough

for me to want to participate

and attempt to make whole that which is clearly broken.

 

you spoke and you speak and you chatter and you chitter,

and all this time

no rhymes of beauty emerge from your mouth.

and south is no longer where i want to be with you.

 

and so this is the final Hobson:

the final it really is:

how it arrives, how it is done, how it is sung – and endingly rung.

 

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