You were a taster for a product which they never made, eventually, after so many samples were handed out in shopping centres, town centres, site specific stores and doors. Some were even posted.
So I became accustomed to something which wasn’t there. Like finding out the person you’ve spoken to six nights in a row, on an internet site which lets you upload any picture you like, is in fact sixteen and the opposite sex entirely from what they led you to believe. Although, sex, perhaps, shouldn’t be such a stipulated thing and, I wonder, if it wasn’t for my upbringing, would I infact be another person entirely?
And this thing – you – I sucked on like faith, pulped like a book I might write and one you definitely did, is a memory flitting from damp bathroom fittings to air to the blocked drain outside my back door, clogged with something grey and thicker than pus, heavier than gravy that’s set.
You were a self-sent, the first break up I incised with my own teeth which melt like kitchen sealant, ready for a new layer, except there’s not one coming, because some things are finite – Brad Pitt’s career, my underwear.
And if only it wasn’t for greed, and I kept free street gifts. But Communion, I’ve got to take straight away and suckle as it melts over my tongue which didn’t see savourable attention until 27. And it’s an instant healing, connection, to a thickly-studied god, who’s talked more than many men to me, despite the apparent charm of me. And he’s said, “I will,” and “Keep on,” and “I’m fucking sorry.” And depending on the level of the room’s hysteria, I reply, “I know. I know god and thanks.”