What You Know/What I’ll Never

I’ll never know what it’s like to marry Brad Pitt.

Which tennis player’s which.

What tattoo needles feel like under skin.

What Johnny Depp smells like,

if he’s pliable like Play-Doh

or rigid like his waxwork I photographed you next to.

If blasphemy’s the sin

I’ve been drummed with to think.

If I’ll outlive Chris.

If the world ends like a disaster movie.

If we even exist

aren’t fragments or figments,

computers or characters in

cancelled TV shows in permanent limbo,

on somebody’s wishlist.
wedding news
Written for Encounter Productions, July 2013.

-ity Fair (NaPoWriMo #28)

Jack says that you’re weird not because you’re weird but because his undecorated flat is a forgotten empire and his family were company-erased before he got here and his last mirror rusted then mould and he couldn’t bleach it or scrape so put it in the shed and when he over-hears you message leaving he recognises a trait, his or Jones’, which is what he calls the people he knew, that he forgets or was made to, that swim between Tom Hanks films, red velvet cake and Jupiter at 4.55am when no-one’s asleep, not even next door, when the Night Nurse lull lurches like vertical drop rollercoasters or falling from a tree accidentally or when Brad left Jen for Angelina Jolie and every year since the untrue article about them getting back, un-divorcing, is a promise, is your mantra, is a prayer, and you give up god, but not that.



My Type

I will crave you in 2012, when nobody else does, because crushes rarely last seasons, and the ones that did, they got you, had you, emptied your insides like a pineapple core deflowerer, and there’s a specific bin now for what you are: innards, entrails, skins, peel and pips.

And the unfashionable-ness of it, of you since the decade spilt over into an uncategorisable event period, is what entices me, has been my problem since maturity, puberty, the nineties, when I thought I’d marry Mark Paul Gosselar, instead of Brad Pitt; always one for the realistic.

I could commit to a surname change or dabble in clinical words spread sexually and I’d avoid or read magazines about you and savour the information like it was secrets you’d give, precursors to vows, and I’d enter every waiting list, expect a positive outcome, fuck statistics because I’m not a 0.1, a negative 2.0, and even the 56 or 58 that failed, I’m challenge-able, will you, win you, can write a mean speech, essay if that’s what it takes to woo. And my veins are ripely varicose, like banana skin creases or George Clooney’s old eyelids or blood in chicken or string strewn at the bottom of a yoghurt or a stalk as I squeeze any last water out.