This Could Kill Me

Sometimes, you realise things it’s best not to know: a church upbringing is responsible for disappointment thick like missing filling Oreos, and dreams aren’t prophetic however much you hope. There’s more, sure, but lists are fun when it’s who’s fuckable, or which lips you’d kiss if you had to, and whose body you’d trade like Pogs or MTG.

A lot of these realisings happen at night once you sign off with goodbye or no and you nightlight stare, wonder which episode of the season this is equivalent to? The shaky first one, or smack in the middle when nothing happens, is pretty much filler, a bottle.

I realise you but don’t want to. Get that? I don’t want to. I can’t text book digest or essay write, or I could and that’s the problem. Being grown ups sucks. Time to lose brain cells, choose which knowledge to shrink like rice in the microwave, drying the water out you just cooked into there. Head on a stick.

masks

Bre/ad

You beg like a Bible verse: taut, memorable, ghost-written. He circles you like a Catherine wheel: you’re the pin, fixed to a flammable fence, and he’s the firework, sputter-ready.
.
You, Walter, have steady, cameraman hands. Cameraperson. Inclusive language is generational, a gap you misunderstand, or miss, or denigrate, the way modern gods being men isn’t a problem. For you.
.
His suit smooth like a wipe-clean-able tablecloth, you ask, “Who will you have without me?” You forget how fast you replaced Beta with VHS, Matt Damon with Ben Affleck, and back again.
.
Once, he invited you into his house, said, “Let’s break bread now,” and you remembered your tongue at the alter, a finger delivering bread, and an endorphin urge, pudding thick, to Velociraptor snap at Father Mike’s fingers.
.
Lapsed Catholic, you wait for this man to decide. He’s your boss. Important like the Commonwealth, in history. There’s no redemption, only more, a pre-written prescription you weekly forget to pick up.
.
For you, Walter, infinity’s a gas meter counter spinning into the next billing cycle.
.
walt
(Originally published on FlashFlood Journal, June 22nd 2013 & referenced on Nuala Ní Chonchúir’s blog Women Rule Writer, 31st July 2013)

Why I Fired You (NaPoWriMo #13)

No list of tardy slips
toilet trysts
CCTV alerts
locker swaps
sick texts
staff night out
faux pas.

Didn’t shop floor skive
slag managers off
short customer change
steal stock
sleep out back
take trash
leave early
unapproved holiday
aid robbery.

Just, every sense word
thick lip spoken
when I could see tongue
was my downfall, pitfall, penance
defined my Father’s purgatory
Minister’s limbo
siphoned my blood
and sieved all the gold bits out.

Now, oxygen deprived
iron low and over.
grant

Teach Me

“I think a lot about god’s plan,” she says, “who he brings together and who he plans decimation for. It’s not something we prefigure – we don’t have the intuition of an angel or a Christian Union President or a Bible writer. We’re bet-placers, with money down on our favourite TV characters dying before season’s up, to distract us from the fact the real life people we love will be dead soon. Might be. Could. But we’ve not got money on that because we’ve not got money and we don’t want to know. But what I would know, what I’d want to, is how we took separate routes on a gameboard with only one track. It almost disproves any fate or factual, prefiguration or plan, don’t you think?”

But Jack doesn’t.

april

Involved

I’m implicit, implicated, undeniably entwined, constantly erroneously eroded.

I watch your boat like you’re Pacey and this is Dawson’s Creek and I’m too late to run, and even if I did, your impulses aren’t thick, your eyes quick. The last time you made a decision was 2002, and even then it was only which box set to buy; VHS was an option.

I’ve made unconventional choices but not unconventional enough. I won’t wear a rosary when it’s fashionable to in case the implications are true even though I don’t think they are now. I’m hard-wired with a certainty there’s a man on the roof surveilling me, checking I don’t expose myself in public, that I’m fucking who I should which is nobody because I’m not married and even then it’s pretty questionable and Bible study’s more important. “Read it in a year,” they said.

It’s simple what I want. The undoing of shirts. Zips stopping to work. Incantation. The promise of guilt free spirituality, which is not in support of wrong doing, but evidence of the fact morality’s standalone, slipping, ebbed.

If I knew what was good for me, I’d read. And the Bible would say stop what you’re doing, listen when a man’s talking, feed periods to the wolves and die in the desert if you’re pure and deny the devil or, at least, Richard Dawkins.

20120525-150131.jpg

If You’re Going To Hell, I’ll Just Come Pick You Up

Jack says, “Shouldn’t we hedge bets? Pick a side? Pretend we know where we’re going when we don’t, and we’re less sure than we were in primary school?” But I wavered, had a penchant for stories that led to performances in front of parents, even though I was relegated each time a play was cast, was always an extra angel, a shepherd with a well tied head dress.

“Couldn’t you tell,” I ask him, “if I was half-hearted about this? Wouldn’t you know that every word was a construct or lie designed to keep your interest, all just part of an end game, not about you at all.”

“I don’t think I can tell now what you’re thinking,” he tells me, and I ask, “Really? You can’t tell now?” and Jack replies, “If you asked me how many fingers you were holding up as you held them in front of me I wouldn’t see, I couldn’t know. I’m trying so hard to read you sometimes I overlook the simple stuff. If I knew how you felt about god, gods, a god, I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t. I don’t know where you think we go when we’re gone.”

“Nowhere,” I tell him, “or anywhere. Kind of where we think we should be. At the moment, I’m stuck in the middle, trying to choose, deciding if it’s either/or or neither at all, because we’re fucked every way I see it.”