You Are Something

You drew a line with a finger, where the booth cushions met, said, “Don’t cross it, yeah?” I didn’t plan to, then, even as I edged closer. That was a test, a buffering at 68% permanently, no chance of an actual load.

You still sit across from the line, always on that side, to my right, and I’m usually first to move. Destroyed now I know what it’s like. Before, I relegated connections to a section in my head for fiction, religion and make believe. That third day I had to concede some times invisible isn’t absent. And now I’m absolute certain of it.

You’re cotton wool soaking me up. And each time a decry of, “Absence doesn’t fondness make,” is thrown between bottled beers, you raise a hand, and everyone knows what you’ll say without you ever saying.

Proximity. Who knew? Who really fucking did, though?

Screen Shot 2014-09-13 at 22.16.45

Advertisements

What If I’m Wrong?

They say steel. But I want to know what’s thicker, and could convince the questionable amongst you. Nelly Furtado says she knew she’d be famous, enviaged it, had premonitions of it, but how many is that true for? She’s just lucky it worked out, and every sad fucker with the same dream is a crisis-broadcast, plastic-wrapper, sweating their insides out, sure that breaks are lottery wins whose odds are as easy as adverts make it.

I saw my future, but I’ll never say what I saw in it.

Winning You With Words There Is No Other Way

The long contract’s an easy sign and even your story, you agree to it being sellable and don’t care what kind of package it is they put you in as long as it’s not taffeta or green, and someone prepared what you’d say and each judge purposefully willed failure, willing you to win, encouraged TV confidence which you had in the mirror when you were 13, but the millennia’s an estimation which never worked mathematically, because the impact factors are complex, and potential’s stayed the same level since 2004 and it’s easy for millionaires to say, “You need a little confidence,” and, “We all want you to win,” with no actual comprehension, and I promise you, scene-stealer, there are movies about the skin on your ribs, elasticine is, and if I could contort I’d understand the flatness of each eyeball and straighten your toes out and tell you this once-a-year charade is a sickness and people coming twice are a zombie start-up and you’re better than that. You’ve bested it.20120924-101347.jpg

Taken Time

Something will move you more than the movie Titanic and you’ll be unprepared as you were then: only hoodie sleeves and the cheapest mascara, pocket money bought, smudged like cartridge pen ink.

Now, you’ve a between takes make-up artist fixing marks left by an emotional on camera quell, and you explain a resonate, a simple get, but any resonance owes a month’s before performer who only knows what the thing was first place about. And Adele is anyone’s guess.20120923-233110.jpg

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.

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.

Rootless

I’m going to teach my daughter, if I’m one of those women who has daughters and not just cutlery on which to polish and dote, not to get hair extensions. I won’t be a dictator but some things are important to pass on, like who not to fuck, and who to fuck, and who to really consider fucking, but don’t feel bad if it’s like a no.

I’m going to teach her about the word no and all the uses of it and that a panel of people saying no to her might be a distinct career point which changes minds and makes weight loss crucial and haircuts climacteric, but it could be a verge of has-beens, a gene pool distilling of four. I don’t know who’ll judge those shows, which rely on minimum-wage desperation, which is plentiful here, in 2016, and I don’t know who’ll live then, or if an apocalypse comes ready to gut-fuck us, and in wait of a prevention/cure, we sip-blow Lemsip which will scorch but not quite wash down. If we don’t die, and she doesn’t, I’ll say, “Kid. I embarrassed myself on television. It’s a passage rite so rehearse your fucking lines. Go impress Gary Barlow. Kiss Tulisa Contosatvlos.”

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.”