It stemmed all the way back to way back when:
and then some more probably – though
his memory was poor on that.
And who knows how long it’d lasted?
When they went and painted him into a corner
was when – more than any time he ever
experienced – the corner they painted him into
seemed dark and closed down.
‘Cos the essence of his soul, what made him fly,
wasn’t closure or limitation or statutory
simplicity but keeping everything up in that air
where flying’s a breeze, and teasing
is fun, and everyone can have a ball of a time.
And if anything destroyed his desire to carry on,
and by this time it was clear they had his
measure on this,
then it was this closing down of a ball of a time
and this painting into dark corners of sensible
shit, and the predictability of dictating his words
so that – in truth and in boredom – what he
ended up writing
was precisely what they wanted in such a way
as they managed to show him exactly
how unpredictable he really wasn’t:
he was – in fact – exactly like any other …
(And that, too, was a sign of his playful
psychopathy – and who’d really have thunk it:
for sure they already did.)