On Knowledge

You get stuff, like, as much as you can. Sometimes you buy cheaper stuff so you can get more of it, to fill every house room up. You find a place for each kind of thing you have one of.

If it exists, you want it, to touch at least, and then there’s stuff you can’t afford, and you hatch plans to pay for it. It’s a dream you have to own like every fucking thing you ever thought of.

And soon you have so much stuff, most of it boxed, labelled for the next house, one after that, and an inbuilt space inside of it specifically for this set of plates, that knife, cushion covers and cardboard cut-outs of Johnny Depp as a pirate (his natural state, don’t you think?)

And people will ask, “What is it?” and you’ll not even know. You’ll say, “It cost everything and I had to get it,” or, “It was a steal, I couldn’t not.”

And knowledge is this. Exactly this. You’ll never wipe the stuff completely, shift, you wish you could unsee, unlearn, depreciate it like possessions from car boots or Poundland, Harrods or eBay, Gumtree.

Knowledge has got a ghost pain, and even the memory’s you don’t have of things which Jack assures you did happen in 2002 and 4, linger between synapses, like silt in a drain, built up so solidly gradual you don’t notice the glug, glug, glug.

stacks
Written for Encounter Productions, July 2013.
Advertisements

The Book of Ezra

I agreed, I thought you’d be there, my plan pattered out after that, pittered, petered. We walked towards each other all slow-motion-y but you disappeared before the interval. You said you were sick to someone you came with which wasn’t me, which should’ve been me but mum and dad disagree about who I should see, what I can wear, who I can sleep with. They’re setting me up with boys I ate worms with, logic being, age is the only consideration. Age and legality.

We didn’t lie well, should’ve seen shows like Lie To Me, House, before they were cancelled. We should’ve said it just started, we got talking over coffee on a Saturday when we were reading the same book coincidentally not for an assignment or anything (an assignment you’d set and I’d do). That’s a lie which wouldn’t have swelled – what can you say, really, when 17 dates 22, when it dates 24? But the full disclosure we’re on, we’re about, allows for arguments and ultimatums and feet down.

I don’t see why we don’t hook up in three years or maybe just two when no-one can say anything about it. Or maybe you won’t wait that long?

20120428-105332.jpg