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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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.


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.

Lucy Hale and Ian Harding as Ezra and Aria on Pretty Little Liars kiss in the rain S02E17 2


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

You cannot make someone love you, nor can you prevent it, for any amount of money.

I start to regret what I said.

I wasn’t watching words,

which felt best: there’s nothing unsaid,


Obviously there are things I don’t say;

you skirt a lot more than I do.

You’re braver. You can be.

The under layer of being best friends, ha, friends,

is anger.

I’ve said all I hoped of the past.

There is no therapy left.

The problem expressing each wrong, each ash, upset is,

sentence quick, jokes

are laced bile.

So when I said, “What do you know

of parenting?”

it was a mis-delivered line, an unintended strike;

Really, I meant, “Do you want kids yet?”


“With whom?”



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.



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.


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.


All That Time, Wasted

If my calendar had been full and myself, gumption-less, the antithesis of Kate Winslet, what sort of woman would you be with and would you suck the same way or are techniques distinct to a person? I swear I’ve done things a little different depending on the receptor, who’s on the receiving end. The way museums are so fucking boring you can’t even be bothered to walk all the way around.

One of the guys, I won’t say which one, but one of them said my words were a lot like mumblecore and this is the briefest example I’ve got of a pinning on after of meaning. And I’m pining after that 2004 feeling which is irretrievable like my hotmail account circa earlier because I stopped logging in regular around the time I quit church and church clubs which were the least successful date I ever went on but the longest in terms of timescale. I committed years. And you were the cull, were part of it. And my apology’s null considering. Still, I’ve got recommendations and cheat sheets and solutions and a Bible study work around which’ll get you to first base if you’re content on only getting there.


This Isn’t Happening

I read the transcripts I was a half, sometimes a quarter or third, of and realise I saw Radiohead in 2003, with no recollection of it. I pushed you to make a top 5, dropped thick hints about relationship status – now, I’ve got Facebook doing that for me, and it functions better, except when strangers congratulate/console/penetrate me. With words, I mean.

The ones missing, from inbetween years, and the months I lived without internet in halls and the skirting apologies for almost-offences and the “don’t know what you mean, really.” But I think you knew.

A handful of voices on top of a Catholic fat, simple to slice through, heavy to suckle, and a phone call to cut it, and regrets, and the sort of indoctrination you don’t think exists now, but it does.

And I learned without you. And each learn was a similar fumble, with ankle length trousers looped with a belt in a bed with a duvet on top. And socks.

Transcripts miss the phone call months I didn’t record but I’d play back your voice from any time, any then old time if I had them, if you’d logged it, if I had. And I’d erase the guilt simply like a story I couldn’t write twice that’s deleted instantly clicking the wrong mouse button (back).