Limerance is apparently a state on the border between – erm – love and infatuation: something like that. Accordeing to Mark (this is gospel!) I now know what it is because he has told me. If I knew what everything he told me, was, I’d be a lot wiser. Or at least, more knowledgeable.
So here is a group of limericks. We went to Limerick, Nick and I (where are you now?) and found it surprisingly unpoetic, though rich in bars. We drank a lot of Guiness on that holiday – and then he went to Australia.
What is the collective noun for limericks? A Poe? An Edgar Allen?
Performing my poems again
I’ll be asking the choirs of men
Who is it sings here
in the porches of fear
in the churches that poison my pen?
The voices are yours, they reply
There’s a scrum when the ball hits the sky
These bounces can hurt
but you’ll never convert
no matter how hopeless your try
However triumphant my cry
the angels politically sigh:
“We can’t publish this –
you don’t tell, but you kiss!
– so the arrow will strike out your eye.”
Not too sure what it all means but thinking about the possibilities and rights or wrongs of publishing these letters and poems when they ostensibly relate to another person. No matter how you make it clear that this is your own stuff, there is bound to be a curiosity about whether the other person experienced any of this stuff. On the other hand, it is my own experience and am I not entitled to tell my own story? In any case, if an offer came along, after so many years in the wilderness, could I restist?
Ther is also the issue that You Know Who may feel that I’ve taken liberties with his words. You, gentle reader, shall now judge for yourself, since I am going to put the poems I wrote in toto on here, along with my story as (according to my psychotic nightmares) I would have told it on stage.