Mononymous

You’d dreamed of a two-named girl, or maybe even three, and over-looking this lacking was difficult as ignoring cross-eyes, hairlines, orthopedic shoes but, at least, those you could understand.

I text that, “It’s not a choice exactly,” and you say you’re confused but you say you’re confused mid-point any argument I swear just to rile and I reply, “One name,” and that sets then starts you.

“You’re not a fucking mononymous celebrity. Don’t sell records on it. Never wrote a thing that warranted the marketing possibilities of it. Your name’s too common and your face, not photographable, and your weight, probably an issue.”

I thought it’d work because so many men are intent on their name evapourating yours. Someone once broke up with me because I said I’d never take theirs, and that was unromantic, apparently. But I’m the most hopeful of everyone, except Mary Magdalene.

Advertisements

What I Am To You Is Not Real

I’m sure, at home, you’re the nicest of men, and you meet responsibilities straight on in the stickiest of fashions, like jammed bread on a linoleum floor. I could bet that you do. I lose almost all bets though, betting which characters die or who wins singing competitions, like I have impeccable tact, could pick a girl by her shampoo out of a crowd and make her Blake Lively. Actually, my knowledge base makes for a mediocre CV and I could blame Isle of Wight careers’ advisers or the religious persuasion of schools I went to when I didn’t know who George Clooney was, but I made each decision, and the only problem was impressing, in the people I tried to impress with each application.

So, against you, in a bathroom, or close the way contestants are, lit un-make-upped, in your category, houses or on tour, I wouldn’t want approval, because I have fathers for that and ex-boyfriends who keep in touch with up-to-date moral codes and thin disguises, but I know when a book’s not a book but a prerogative. And you, you nice home man, are diabolic.

And when you find yourself saying, “Confidence is your only problem,” wonder if you ever knew how not to be confident, if you ever felt how it is to hold convictions lighter than plastic bags in movies which won awards but actually, commented on time as it passed, and now, its trademarked stars are good for reunions and sequels and album titles, but not quite the singularity once anticipated of them. And you, also, stand example of a time in which we wanted only the forgiveness of a person completely inept at giving it, in public.

Elephant

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.”