Beauty and the Beat

Of the things I shouldn’t see, this is a low vote, hanging score, because I’ve watched men ejaculating into milk bottles which I thought were museum relics we’d soon admire. Once, a promised laugh meant pegged balls and suspenders. You’re lucky the visual you have is imagined; like an unreleased film, replay’s less likely.

So this, I’ll forget by 2015, quicker than the rim of Ben’s mouth, the pockets of John’s duffel, webs of Timothy’s toes. Sooner than Justin Beiber’s forgotten; his is a ‘fake your own footage stolen’ fade that’ll pain a girl less until 2080.

The Privilege Of Being Yours

I will turn out to be who you truly hoped I wasn’t and this is disappointing like the second single from any X-Factor winner, apart from Leona, who maybe got it right momentarily, but moments are disappearing acts slicker than Michael. And I’ll edge towards the sorts of behaviour you had reserved for psychotics and sisters and addicts and Lindsays and Ryders and Depps in different decades. And I’ll do it, especially the despicable thing, with the authenticity of a street bought watch telling almost the right time, and no-one stops to really listen to the tick because that’s time-wasting. I’ll fuck your dad for less than a fortune, to piss mum off, and I’ll integrate quicker than all the characters introduced at the start of season two of every show, sure a shake-up’s vital, but just because budget affords it, shouldn’t make it so.


Real Charlie

Sometimes the real you isn’t you at all. But family and friends convince you you’re definitely one of them. No-one’s ever fit succinctly into the unique holes they’re cutting for others, but you’re the closest and that’s got to be fateful or, at the very least, meaningful. No-one considers they’re desperate, they’ll let anybody be what they’re after if it means one less night looking in TV guides, a Sunday without a solo cinema trip. Although some people like that, but it’s not what you like but what you should that’s important. So keep the game up, and the extensions plugged in and the hair colour a shade off the other people in your new circles. You don’t want to be dull, but noticeable’s almost as bad in situations when you’re pretending to be who someone else thinks you are.

Sometimes the real you is called Lola.