Umbrella

You talk about Derrida, explaining the plot of a play. One that you’ll write. And this 5 minute, joke free, impassioned as prosthetically¬†enhanced Matt Damon, conversation segment, catches my breath like a hoover in a corner; unexpectedly. And what I wanted to say evaporates like moisture right out of roast chicken at hot heat in the hundredth minute. I stutter and say that you’ve ruined me and you apologise like it’s an actual thing: ruining me. Like you didn’t do that already and know that you did and it wasn’t philosophy doing it then. Just you, years ago.

Your voice turns on like a lectureship and I’m equal in these minutes, in the middle of them, frittering grip on my usually ready¬†ripostes. Even if your references aren’t things I’ve read (are they ever?), I take like communion or delicacies from places I’ve not been. I’m no lapsed Catholic. Or that’s exactly it; I’m lapsing, constantly, relapsing, like an alcoholic or chronically ill person unsure when attacks happen. And this is chaos, this all is. Purgatory, like a Comic-Con queue in winter: 4 hours to see an old Doctor Who, and even then, no guarantee the photo opportunity’s open, is there?

We’re picking over language. Less is lost, than was. And I like you best on the phone, as you light cigarettes, make coffee and RT bad quotes by Albert Einstein. Someone on Twitter asks where you are – they’ve not seen you online in a while. My heart beating like central heating, I head-perfect an inscription for you. But language is fallible. Out of context. And that’s the point. Pick an errant sentence, tell me what it means. Don’t misinterpret me yet.

aria ez rain

If I Had Only Felt How It Feels To Be Yours

I will go back and detergent my hands until the alien-ness of them is a summer arm scraping, is MSN message typing, trying to keep up with a words per minute sort of a man who develops exactly how you expect, or better, which is almost always not the way development works and everyone who got it wrong you sacrifice like shrunk clothes to charity shop skips which’ll never sell because the label doesn’t match up the seams.

Re-reading every message and text, some people don’t change and others are potential-less when they started off fat like fruit. And how could you know the way this’d end, if there aren’t ends and ends aren’t games in which you wait and stop waiting like queues you can’t quite bother with. And things I wish you’d think were eradicated, vindicated, but good Catholics know that the release is temporary and word only and someone else’s prerogative entirely. And Prerogative, that’s a Britney Spears reference, and you get that, and I’m sorry I could fuck someone over so intent on saving, preserving me, or just witnessing what I turned into.

Absolution On Your Own Time

If you’re planning to absolve people, don’t when I’m here. I don’t want to see it. Every action should be tangible, not about an almost feeling, and I may be heathen for saying it – I’ve read the verses I know you’ll refer to – but it’s not a crime to like concrete. To imagine a time before phone signals and airwaves and radio frequency.

You say absolution’s important and I don’t disagree aloud because I don’t know who’s listening and I don’t want to give the impression I’m only into absolutes, that there isn’t room for grey matter. I think I mean grey area.

I used to hope for resolution, ultimates, ultimatums, endings to take pride in. Instead, it all peters unexpectedly and hope’s quashed like mashed squash, potato, and the seasons you’d hoped to see after are entities which exist in imagination only.