When everyone else is dead, let’s Facetime, forget that they mattered once, and the week long crush, that might have been a month, won’t become a regret now they’re gone, and the miles that matter to us are inflicted moves that graduate, completion and win, committ, and I’d pour credit into petrol if it meant we were seconds closer than four hours, that didn’t involve trucks and trains.
My face is a rectangle bed stick, like sleeping together, this is.
You will refuse to admit it’s over even when Jack’s laundry left in the machine is a finger vomit, a three week old work-surface banana. You’ll pretend until your acting is called into question and you’ll consider classes to improve your actualising and you’ll wonder how long it takes to become a professional and if you’d earn better money at that, than this, because this is a pitiful wreak, a floor fall diamond.
You laugh at your jokes and his because he’s new and the man that’s playing your fiancé, you laugh when the script calls for it and you groan on cue and you’re used to saccharin breakfasts, a steadfast lunch, and decades with the people you divorce and you marry and you’ve cultivated, exclusively, all family dealings on sets, in outfits, so that your life’s an exquisite blur, an impossible figure, so you took the furtherest offer. You were after an out. But this start could falter before fall stops. And that dude was Superman, or did you forget?
If you back yourself, I’ll back you, stand next to the yet to resurrect version of you which makes for super good television. Because my words aren’t criticism, they’re nigh on gospel, and if you savour each syllable, let my sentences set like hand print cement or jello or Botox you’ll find higher levels and I don’t mean Mario, although I don’t sleep much either.
If I tell you your fatness is cured, I’ve cured it, because I never told a lie in my life, but when I did, I found it unswallowable, and time is a series of do and not do, of back-track mistakes and dreaming you look like a Clooney, fuck like a Pitt.
And if you believe me, that in three months you’re standing, my side to your doubled up belt, then I’ve a religion started, I’m head of a brand new estate.
The roof leak bus with the box dye patter, a cubicle or a festival, a deep rot, abrupt stops and puddles at each shoe pair and we pass Jack’s old house, it’s empty and I imagine its interior landscape for the two second corner swing and then it’s 2012 again.
One life moment, there’s no romanticising and Matt Damon may increase bus value by 1, but it’s just 1 and 1 won’t increase history and I’ve not exchanged a number on a bus aisle and the reasons for this are 1: the buses smell like shit here.
I can’t think of a man who didn’t overlap with the next, or another, and it’s not disrespectful to any of them and I don’t count Jesus in this list and the clarification isn’t stupid because there are some that save themselves and even then he’s in the room and if I wanted to be watched I’d pick somebody hotter or available in ways he isn’t and it’s not blasphemy if you’re born into it and I prayed for unalterables to be true and a self-brainwash is similar to a communal, but knowing your own mind isn’t an option, in fact I’ve been punished for it and the questions weren’t career-breakers, couldn’t crush my crush on John, or dampen Jack (yes, I was wet enough), or undo what I did with Jenny. Biblical rules are ancient like Marathon bars, or the album Lindsay Lohan recorded in 2005, 6, before she tore shit up.
The long contract’s an easy sign and even your story, you agree to it being sellable and don’t care what kind of package it is they put you in as long as it’s not taffeta or green, and someone prepared what you’d say and each judge purposefully willed failure, willing you to win, encouraged TV confidence which you had in the mirror when you were 13, but the millennia’s an estimation which never worked mathematically, because the impact factors are complex, and potential’s stayed the same level since 2004 and it’s easy for millionaires to say, “You need a little confidence,” and, “We all want you to win,” with no actual comprehension, and I promise you, scene-stealer, there are movies about the skin on your ribs, elasticine is, and if I could contort I’d understand the flatness of each eyeball and straighten your toes out and tell you this once-a-year charade is a sickness and people coming twice are a zombie start-up and you’re better than that. You’ve bested it.
My sister reminds me on holiday I’d take roadkill pictures, that’d end up blurry, a self-censor, because the after’s not something you can capture. Not explainable, adequate or photogenic.
Then, death was a make-believe marvel that Bible stories disproved or made points of, and it was an other person place which the pocket of my stomach was yet to inhabit. Similarly, I’d take fairground rides, awe-full, off-peak to queue skip, without bolts and seat-fittings invading eyespace. And if dad said it was okay it was okay.
And my bravery is a moment push now, a fluttery seat belt turbulence, in which I sometime regret analysing Genesis, John, Jude, with a graduate skepticism, until close-read passages were unworkable poems evidenced as undo, don’t do, did.
There’s solace in the nothing. But where does the skin go?
When the call comes – a friend recommends you for a first audition for a TV talent show – it’s a half-expect, fate, eventuality as all reason. The emotions are a grieving scale and first comes proud and the thousand queue, a cake topping sprinkling gets you past producers but the celebrities you’ve seen on the polished show product are entities locked in dressing rooms bigger than lounges in houses you’ve grown up or sat in.
I’m going to pick a moment to live and it won’t be expected like a birthday, holiday, landmark like moving, or breaking someone’s stare. A mother’s meal, dad’s advice, hospital break out or work-up purchase. An achievement medal-worthy, wedding or chip-eating-cemetery sitting with Jack, John, Paul.
Instead I pick this long forgotten kiss which both parties remember on technicality: the jukebox mechanism, toilet lock, soaked beer mats. And in hindsight it’s a regraded movie, re-reviewed a decade later by sit-through-movie-goers who toy with their “leave any time clause.” And they’d always rather stay than leave and never know. Conclusivity is better, whatever it sheds. Usually just carrot grated boredom.