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,
that is how, precisely how, you’ve rended the husband
from his strife: a life which once looked to be thrive
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.