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

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.


Didn’t keep a diary when I was small, or now, because that requires a level of honesty I’ve not got. Someone always finds it and I didn’t want my secrets spread on toast. Nutella makes me hyper, peanut butter makes me sick, jam is just fruit in a jar.

Better to code it, write stories, change names, than allow for the possibility of it found, and serialised, and internet property. Not that public would care about mine the way they care about Hannah’s, Blair’s. This isn’t HBO or a show closely mimicking shows which used to be on HBO years ago. Or how about that Showtime?

If I had something important to say that hadn’t been said, I’d bitch it out loud and let the words fog up. Vocal purging’s just as satisfying: have you not heard of confession? And then it’s gone. And I’d get guilty for it because there’s no resolution really and forgiveness is a sickness – some things you can’t track back from.

Safe and Sound 2

You’re a safe breaker, code breaker. That Inside Man movie was about you even though you’re female.

You get out of bed when you’re ill and your maid brings you blueberries.

You’re impartial to Taylor Swift songs, films she’s on the soundtrack of. She’s your Halloween go to fancy dress outfit. Or it’s Gaga.

You’re too young to remember Dawson’s Creek in any sort of complexity and Boy Meets World, Blossom, Fresh Prince were shows your sister saw, but not you.

In your dreams, you figure out who A is, you’re the elusive third The Civil Wars member.

You’re watching as the famous people die.

Penn Badgley

You know what turns you off when you see it. Before that, the delicious unknown swirl, the way his hair sticks to his head nonchalantly, like it’s better not to wash now, will make you heady, and you’ll sleep with your stomach elevated, your aesophagus threatening to slide right out of your mouth.

You remember what dating without talking was like – like a movie – and the familiarity of films, which makes you remember sidewalks and stores you’ve never been to, means you hanker for other, simpler men, who haven’t an opinion on Damien Hirst, don’t know who Tracey Emin is.

His fault wasn’t trying, writing, dressing, kissing, wasn’t what he said the first morning or what he’ll say the last. Some renovations you can’t make. The sheer energy in wood-sanding, carpet stapling is a full time job, and your career goals of princess, pop star, don’t leave room for almost men, slight ones, men growing their hair to pretend they’re Jeff Buckley, the sort of extinguishable genius that knowing is like touching a Ouija board. You saw The Exorcist when you were fifteen and have waited for transformation since.