There Are No Templates, Paradigms or Rules

I’ve lived my life by rules. And it’s actually easier. Even if you break them, return to form’s straightforward, repent appropriate, guideline for what’s right and works; socially acceptable.

And shedding those rules is like dying hair for the first time. Kind of cray cray. Until it’s done, then it’s, like, fine.

It’s because of the chaos. No-one knows how to sit comfortably in it without an existential crisis, most of all you. I mean, fuck, yours was when you were ten or something.

The person paid to solve my problems says, “You do what you think you should, but what do you want?” like knowing that is actually the answer, sessions will be over if we can just pinpoint epiphany.

But to want is complicated. I sit in it a second longer, waiting for the change, the new season’s styles switched for the mannequin’s garment sale. I wait to not want you.

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I don’t do any drugs but I write about dreams more than a person should. Is that like worse?

It’s like I switched the TV on 25 minutes into the movie, because I only have snapshots. This night you’re not a narrative ready to be blogged, or told, or turned into marketable packages like poems which won’t make any money. But it was you, exactly. And isn’t it, always?

We were on a sofa in someone’s house, watching a kids’ film, a cartoon, one of those in-between, appropriate for anyone things, because sex jokes go over the heads of even some twenty year olds. But we’re not twenty. You most definitely aren’t. And I’m at that announce-able age where if I don’t start having children soon, people will think there’s something wrong with me. And there is, but not that.

I ended up on you, and I say ended up like it’s osmosis, this natural move, not play or awkward moment, but something that happens like when the bus turns a corner and the person next to you starts touching you and it wasn’t purposeful but it happened and you’re sort of okay about it. Well it was like that, but better. Basically, every dream that we’re in, eventually, I’m pressed against you like wallpaper, bubble-less, and you’re quintessentially okay with it also.

Dream me wondered if that black jumper might make an impression on my face. If it did, it wouldn’t be as structurally solid as the indent you’ve made on me, that you’re making, that’s an un-finish-able wool pattern, fun even in the knitting. I crave solidity like a sweater stamp.

My dad walked in when the film was over, and I didn’t jump up like real life might enforce, and no-one was surprised at the situation; Us. And we wondered what next. Didn’t say, but your eyes, eager in direct moments, when everything else was onscreen, asked.

I won’t say the rest. Even under duress, with the right bribe. Because it was imprecise. And an idiot could work out the meaning. Google’s got it on the first try. Comprende? “Maybe triggered by some major change or wish.” Whatever.

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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.

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DisArmoured

Playing the long game is like watching Lost, following the career of a stalwart, finding they died already.

And what if, years later, a wrong unchangeable move haunts shopping trips, and my overdrive mind works out an alternative method the math’s test didn’t suggest?

Maybe, if I was kinder and you weren’t crazy and we’d met at an instead age we wouldn’t be strangers online and off.

I estrange you, fish reel in empty lines, avoid you in the Sainsbury’s doorway and my high school friends all ra-ra-ra, smug in their youth group leaders.

Your baggage is my double full stop, P60, Breaking Dawn Part 2.

ezzz

Cheese

I’m going to pick a moment to live and it won’t be expected like a birthday, holiday, landmark like moving, or breaking someone’s stare. A mother’s meal, dad’s advice, hospital break out or work-up purchase. An achievement medal-worthy, wedding or chip-eating-cemetery sitting with Jack, John, Paul.

Instead I pick this long forgotten kiss which both parties remember on technicality: the jukebox mechanism, toilet lock, soaked beer mats. And in hindsight it’s a regraded movie, re-reviewed a decade later by sit-through-movie-goers who toy with their “leave any time clause.” And they’d always rather stay than leave and never know. Conclusivity is better, whatever it sheds. Usually just carrot grated boredom.

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I Am Small

If I could explanation-make every time we moved rooms I’d be a scriptwriter instead of student procrastinator and goals would be as defined coffee orders; a slight syrup switch doesn’t alter the texture enough to produce an entirely different taste but cups are identity ready and I’ve ordered Tall since I had pocket money, and I never tried decaf.

So I will let slide the joins making sense of our dialogue, which, currently absent, see us turn up land-markedly unexpectedly. But the kisses keep tight and no tongue.

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I Am Waiting For Something To Go Wrong

You might think an interview process with ex-girlfriends and current ones would be easy and sticky like napkin-less takeaways you eat walking. They whisper when you leave rooms and you know this because they do it when you come back in, too. And you use verbal placation, the same sentences appropriate for both people, because although those you date are different, have dated yearly, for weeks or just days, they have essential commonalities, understand each tone of you, hear it right down to the cages of ribs and the swellings of organs which shouldn’t swell and you should see a doctor for. Things which swell aren’t always euphemisms. But you don’t see doctors, and you enter into situations such as this, a girlfriend and an old one and a low spoke tension and physical lies and an unclenchable feeling that some times shouldn’t collide and timelines aren’t reversible and you wouldn’t be a traveller if it meant reliving anything because why date up when you can date down, in age, anyway. And the thrill of each ending was a story you wanted to tell, irregardless of notches, numbered on wood, before you’re dead, or after it. They’ll talk then. They’ll talk then. They talk right now.

Everyone Is To Blame

I make you half-filled cups, in which the water barely soaks the bags I dip, and these are each nondescript flavours and you take deeper swigs than you’d need to if I brim-filled it, knew what I was doing, except I do, and the purposeful pour is control I execute over us like the lies which are list-worthy, committed to memory, in fact penetrable, confession ready, hell-takers, tie-breakers. In fact, if this is a tie, this one year, a little more, a TV time three-year fuck-up, then my rosary beads will fucking burn the scars on your feet until the on-top scars cover ones the other girls left, the girls who are women now because it’s so long since they got paid off with babies they didn’t have but did but you don’t know if they did but they did. You are so much older than me.

Waging War

Once we were fists and clothes slip and urgent at every point. I waited to taste the optic chiasm in you.

Now we are note takers, plotting what we’d do to Tania and Tim and my script says, “Suck, suckle, spit,” and yours says, “Win”.

Catch

I am a catch, an understand your jokes, almost never late, catch who’s seen every episode of Frasier. And if that doesn’t impress you, when we’re snuck up on, filmed, photographer, fired or broken up with, I’ll find a way to your house or hotel room and watch whatever you watch when you’re alone. Even porn. Even that Paris Hilton one.