So then dear poet of hate, arise!

Late to the 21st century am I, believing as I did in love.

And whilst – in hindsight – those I loved did abuse me,

I once thought in exchange it was soul and heart – all the time – 

they chose to time and rhyme me with.

Now it’s clear their love was conditioned by my airy acceptance 

of their defining my desire to line my pockets with kindness

as a sign of awful silly weakness: above all, a signal of shambolic fool.

And where I thought I could be a tool of the should,

they just wanted me to be a man of the hood: an evil man of casual hurt.

They wanted me to be like them: hating and rating and judging

continually, yer know?  And like – precise! – a stowaway on slave ship 

is where they wanted me to slip and stutter and jitter; rudderless I guess,

with my compass directionless, my flies bad undone, and my pride 

ripped and fearfully gone.  And so the song goes on, 

and late it is for me to turn back now, late it is for me to return

to love’s century; instead, these men – and then a notably clever 

pair of women bright – have driven me into their

welcome arms of hate.  And if you fear this, and if it makes you sad,

just recall the bad my family and friends both

have done to the kind and loving intelligence 

I always did display till this day: for wilfully you have made your choice;

wilfully you have staked my heart; wilfully you have reverted my art

to the pursuit of dreadful hateful outcome.  So arise, dear poet

of hate.  Arise, dear man.  Arise and then claim your killing-fields, wham!


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