I Hope That You’re Together, Somehow

I know that whether you are or you’re not isn’t text book, nor will it be if my kids get school taught, but that’s decades off. By then, we won’t collect your chin shavings in zip-lock sandwich bags, post them for sale on eBay. Or get your address purely to pick over your bills and your old milk. If you drink milk. Your diet’s a lesser sought fact than it ought to be.

And I’ll replay any almost second of you kissing somebody, analyse the tilt, shake science of it. I’ll search for synonyms for the word ‘enter’ and the best I’ll get is penetration. You were thinking it, but it was blanketed by safe words like ‘vehicle’ and ‘toaster’.

I’ll explain every blurred album shot as multi-grain bread and, “I saw him, close up, and shadows were ornaments, Christmas tree hung on his cheekbones, and I rubbed ’til each wish was Amazon bought, until privacy was a fuckable luxury.” He is.


I’d tit-tape you to stay. But a sticky technique is romantically risky; I’ve not undone a shirt since 2004. Then, I got dumped every 2 months, at bus stops. I was a kiss to recoil from. You recoiled from.

So I’m tit-taping you, cutting ex-wife’s reins from wrists and severing ties to her children. This is not a developmental issue. Her molasses are silicone chrysalises and the kids belong to potent scraps of chat room fuck.

I tit-tape and it’s a bung job and every first is hers to lord and she bought your Morrissey shirt from a jumble sale at a church, mumbling self-taught curses in deep slurs, a baby’s gurgle. And she said she was Lilith.



One day we’ll die but
we’ve never tried peanut butter M&Ms,
seen Catherine Zeta Jones,
tongue kissed Brad Pitt,
when everyone else has,
everyone seems to.

We’ve only felt each other’s hands
long enough to guess the temperature,
antagonised parents,
predicted riots,
read the minds of people around us,
and they’re dying;
dead soon.



I wish I could be indifferent to your eyebrows. I decipher days depending on how you smell and I’ll make decisions in a snap just when you think I’m persuaded. Remember you’ve never won, even when you think you have or actually have. A win is a second setting you up for bigger wants you’re less likely to get. Not everyone achieves what they set out to or think they deserve.

I’ve never been indifferent, especially when I’ve wanted to be, which is the point really. I wish I could be completely indifferent. Instead, the immerse of the day to day is like a dinosaur shaped cookie cutter to the belly. This thing’s got teeth, claws.

One day I’ll wake not caring what you think, who you fuck, what you want next, supposing there’s anything left you could want: Madonna’s surname, Lady Gaga’s vagina? Until them I’m complicit in caring. What’s another word for disgust?


I Need Your Money

I’ll be honest. I’ve conned you. You don’t realise but you only want me because daddy said no. The scar on my chin excites you, and the cut on my nose is an invitation; destruction equates to sex in some people’s heads, and lucky for me you’re some people.

I won’t divorce you. Unless I’ll gain from it, in which case it’ll be done in seconds. I’ll be the one to execute it.

You’re too young. Your hair’s the wrong colour. I’ve had women, paid for the privilege, clawed my way from basement apartments, post rooms. You don’t know how much my seat cost, what they pay for consultations.

But this marriage will last. It’s the match for me. Expect separate rooms though and fights.


I’m More Powerful Than a King

I have more power than a prime minister. When your wife dresses in front of you there is no reservation, no thought popping, gut feeling that undressed might be better. That some things happen twice, more.

I’ve touched your wife’s neck in public and I’ve purposefully shamed you. I’ve ______ her. She waits outside my house now, speaks audibly at newspaper stands, flower carts, begs me to untie, unhook her. But I buy flowers for somebody else and your wife turns soap shades, curtain drapes. She offers me trades but I’ve had her, already.

Like any politician I have monetary goals, sacrifice popularity; who needs general consensus when you have a clutch of women, each with another influence?

Eventually, there is no choice at all, no decision leads to love and if it does it’s a desperate scrabbling, an embarrassing slog at a life you bring home dirt from. So I ____ your daughter.