&stayforever (said like it’s one word)

I want to know how to get out of quicksand and survive it. Apparently using a stick helps. Creating bigger footprints. Not struggling. Is that what my problem is?

We both know it’s not easy as exchanging skirts for other sizes or switching gluten for the wheat. There is no fix to anyone’s any of this.

“Everything’s up in the air,” you say, “for everyone,” and we’re each giving advice we don’t know how to take ourselves, even though the things we accept, button like uniform up, we tell others not to.

It’s easier to pull someone out of a pit than it is to get yourself out, I think.

We’ve survived so many things, and some we’re living with, and if there’s one person you can never bin, it’s yourself.

Screen Shot 2014-09-05 at 22.57.35

Maybe this is pointless

And maybe there’s nothing that’s not?

Summoned you like Ouija spirits, but really real, anticipating a late game fix, dissolution grudge; Katy Perry and Rihanna are alleged friends, after allegedly not.

On TV, pointless is ripe a replay, and writers have an endgame, pair they’ll put together if they’re on air in 2 years, 20 or 4. These are the inbetween episodes in which something has to happen.

Because how do you erase somebody? Those fountain pen felt tip disappearers that made mistakes invisible, even those you could squint if you tried. A line-through is more respectful, maybe, than a nothing even there.

I’d like to list the reasonable things. A Top 5 of life is about THIS. But I need more time. A Christmas cut-off, I think.

love her huh

Surprise Centre

Your eyes on the third day.┬áThe thread count. Any guess. Cassette tape stretched from rewind. The clock, begging mum for extra. Cigarette breaks. The hip bone flutter. Tendency to say what I mean, mean it. Signal drop out. Age gap mishap. Sofa stitching. “What if,” temporary tattoo, and “Almost.”┬áTouch excuse. 16 hours a day. A stomach kick, brain bleed. No time enough. Your photo jumper. Profile, date stamp. Future. Hanging up last like life dependency. Clarity. An infinite restraint amount destroyed with simple follow.


Bit Bitter

You can’t give a shit about this dream. Another turned sediment in year-old vodka and that one, the one, was seventh sneer, a forgetting, betting on the wrong X Factor member for the win. Because what should is a very slim and what did is a rim straddler. Success, is every best-friend picked boy over head bands, pleats and horoscope compatibility and Spice Girls’ CDs, cemented in the nineties when we had promise. But promise, no. Ant and Dec had promise then, too; boy band hairstyles fooling no-one.

Twin Fire Signs

There is no perfect point, only a cross-pathed mess of near grabs, almost hads and overs. We’ll see, late, we were a time waste, hoping for a moment to strike, a Biblical revelation, movie-like regeneration, collage scrap fitting an exact left space when, really, life’s a crapshoot, and we’ll be dead soon wishing we’d taken the other when we could’ve except, when you’re dead, there aren’t wishes any more or regrets and any statement of what there is which I could make would be an arrogant stamp, smug snatch at a concept I’m uncomfortable with. But, we should’ve kissed.

Really Maybe Shouldn’t

We have a distance pact so that since July, we won’t break the other’s space, the way we did then, when you were a Columbus pedlar even when the reality is we weren’t each other’s firsts, or thirds. And when we street bump people whose collars we’ve lifted, sifted, sucked, we reinforce housework we do and what we’re prepared to and yours is a neck promise, calendar irrelevant, and each past person’s a desperate text, public plead for a relationship which ended abruptly because some things aren’t written to last, remembered only anecdotally as a, “Fuck no, don’t remind me. God.” But you, a reboot of a reboot of a remake, don’t need recasting. Never needed Shia LaBoeuf to re-legitimise you. And we are the kiss that loses to Robert and Kristen at the Movie Awards consecutively but, really, maybe, shouldn’t.


Definitions Of The Word Late

I will act late, too late, when you’re at terms with the fact I’ve fucked other people, that Jenny and Dan and Mon are single numbers on a triple digit list. There aren’t triplets. But we all have aims.

And when I act you’ll imagine every second before, the sections of life and quarters in which I could’ve intervened, every interaction welcome, like an unexpected sequel; Before Sunset.

I act anyway, late, because I imagined life was a loop and I’d catch a repeat of you. When I realised it’s not, I wouldn’t, don’t, I extinguished every flame that honestly was an unlit match, merely threatening fire with rubbing and I never rubbed anything. I saved every hand job for you.


No Kind Words

I missed my chance. My Reese Witherspoon moment, and everyone’s much less forgiving as I’m not her, or Julia Roberts, or even Leighton Meester.

I’d love a break cut, slack, a little pliable glue, cement, trouser fabric.

I wasn’t taught to calendar check, calorie count, can’t follow diaries with appointments in them, have no real sense of time passing other than by TV seasons and even then it’s only the haircuts changing, the sense of entitlement oozing.

And when I put make up on it doesn’t stay on the way it clings to the faces of movie stars, giving them the sort of thick skin Mum told me to have but I just never grew it. I wear leathers and cords and Goretex and plastic but my pores clog, grease the rest of my face up and it’s hard to put a good show on.

I want to be positive, believe luck is made not won, stumbled upon like curses or George Washington’s ghost or spirituality on cereal box packets or song lyrics.

Everything’s constructed from something – hair extensions and houses. And un-tie-able us and every fucked up, mis-routed prayer, wish, promise, for something better we couldn’t create if we wanted. Even though anything’s achieveable, swear to fucking god it is.