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.

aria ez rain

Promised LAN (NaPoWriMo #17)

Internet eliminates LAN parties
Dad transporting PC towers
with seat belts
make-shift living room tables
enough Coke to melt off skin
– Coca-Cola that is –
head-sets for every attendee
no experience necessary
though TCP IP, switches, routers
familiarity with ethernet
networking in Windows
configuring a local area connection
to get computers online
what role these serve
problem potentials
contact lenses
a spare pair of pants
a vaseline jug
and some Rizlas



The roof leak bus with the box dye patter, a cubicle or a festival, a deep rot, abrupt stops and puddles at each shoe pair and we pass Jack’s old house, it’s empty and I imagine its interior landscape for the two second corner swing and then it’s 2012 again.

One life moment, there’s no romanticising and Matt Damon may increase bus value by 1, but it’s just 1 and 1 won’t increase history and I’ve not exchanged a number on a bus aisle and the reasons for this are 1: the buses smell like shit here. 20120925-100221.jpg