Arranged Match

You will pluck me from obscurity sure that my gun handling abilities are above par, on par, almost par, and you’ll mould me the way I did dough, and bread and gluten-free spaghetti (stealthily unbendable, non-pliable, even when wet).

And I will break up, break with, and I’ll take in all sorts of literature and I’ll explain, in a zombie apocalypse I’m exactly the person to know.

I’m a person you should know, okay? You say you know, it’s why you picked me. But I can’t help thinking all action is really inaction, and that there’s no other earth to compare us to, no mirrors, and no reason, and what we think we’re altering’s only a construct that isn’t there anyway. A hypothetical, invention. Like freedom, you know?


Number 4

I will know you before I want to, before we exchange names, and you’ll turn up in a stalker-ish way and we’ll pretend we’ve never done things for money or to make people like us, but we’ve both stripped down to our underwear and let people photograph us and it helped but not as much as the promise said. And promises generally are watered down jelly, are unset ice cream, are blancmange and curdling cocktails.

When you need a fourth, when no-one sticks, and you’re convinced alone is forever, is okay, is the actual, I’ll hold the skin under your bra, beneath your elastic Y-front rim, and lie better than the last ones did.