Sharing 30th Dec

A melange of words I read for the 30th December sharing at Jem’s house. I was pretty near emotional ground zero.


-He woke up in the dead of night with her beside, warm and asleep, and close eyed could not stop from thought, thinking this or that, about what would happen and from what pasts such futures could possibly have arisen, and remained horizontal on that horrible bed, horrible sunken, sad, stuffed with others’ dust mattress in a sad part of town in a desolate mental shiver – the likes of which are a sad shell of living, a parody of how it should be to be, in one’s own living light, a solid display, a gentle breathing mind, wholly with itself, a small shining pulse expanding and receding at the thought of a new day – not this sunken sudden dead of night panic. At what? At people, plainly, and not living how he’d like to live with them.


-I look at children and think one day your heart will be broken. But right now you’re Christmas. This TK Maxx used to be a Lloyds bank. This Zara used to be a Burger King. I’m in the cemetery with my backpack full of gifts. I used to skip Maths to meet my high school girlfriend here. These graves used to be people. My high school girlfriend is now married and travels the world singing. I buy my mother a remote controlled helicopter and some bath bombs. I realise I’m crying in John Lewis. The clothes here are offensively unambitious.


-I meet up with a friend. They tell me its going to hurt. I like this. I want to be around people who are willing to talk about pain and suffering.


-It’s better to break up in winter. Women are wearing more clothing and the neurological theme is family. Can they see the grief in me? women, cats, the shrewder dogs, they look at me and I feel revealed. Is Christmas an aphrodisiac? Work parties foaming over London, everyone emboldened with cheer. Sex and abandon are in the air. Doing things we wouldn’t normally do. Strangers kiss in the unfaltering light of Piccadilly Circus, consumerism is a kind of romance. Nike will never break my heart. I sleep until midday and then continue.


-…and you step off the stage and look at each other as if for the first time. And it’s the bright light of day, the performance is over, you don’t know what was real, you spoke in a certain way, you had an understanding,

and now that is over,

as she tells you she wants to be with herself,

and you look at her like this,

always when this happens,

they look so miraculous,

and real,

their faces red with tears,

and fear, and guilt,

clear with lack of passion,

but respect

and gratefulness,

she is grateful for your love,

and for your time,

and you would like to make love,

one last time,

or even kiss,

but it would be an act of necrophilia,

or narcissism,

or Archaeology

for her its history –

for you this conversation is a beginning –

and you are now open like a wound.


-I meet up with a friend, they sit and say almost nothing. We stare out the windows together like creatures.


-Now we’re broken up I see her more sharply. Without the haze of domestic information – how is she feeling today, who needs to do the washing, what’s on her mind. I see a woman in a photograph smiling next to a man who appears to be me. I see a beauty in her that is now distant and that I am newly excluded from, and then I see a new beauty I’ve just been let into. The beauty of a stranger. There are so many mysteries. So many people who’ll remain forever unknown. To know one person is to know the extent of your universal ignorance. If only I had a thousand life times.


-I meet up with a friend. I ask them how they deal with heartache. She says she stared at a single point on the wall for 48 hours. Her mother brought her food. And then she worked very, very hard.


-Are we stronger than love? Some die from heartbreak, some kill. Most suffer and prevail, and swim in it again and again. Many billions of people.

I wish we could control love. That’s how I feel right now. A girl on Tinder tells me she just wants an arranged marriage. I ask her, ‘Isn’t choice important? Aren’t you a Capitalist?’ She doesn’t reply. She’s dead to me.


-My father retired and bought an electric guitar. The amp has a button you press that adds distortion. He’s learnt a few chords and now practices switching between them. An endless loop of A minor and C major form the soundtrack to my Christmas. (The chords to my favourite song.)


-quit your boyfriend he’s trash

grab ass in the gas station cubicle.

kiss me with tears

buy me effervescent drinks, tell me i’m pretty

in a pencil skirt

show me where it hurts

slow down on purpose

think of her when you fuck her

my erection like a monument to optimism

soften me up with punchlines

scoop me into the back of the black cab and into

your hot private angst

redefine human intimacy

describe to me a painting you did when you were three

of your mother

all in blue

kiss me with tears

hear my breath when you wake up and watch me on my holiday from being

cup my breasts with cigarette smoke and get

hungover on heartache

invest in my pleasure

reap what you sow

look me in the eye when i go like a gun

call me butterfly or turtle dove,

honey bear or lover,

tell me your actual real name as it is written on the certificate!

fuck with your soul

kiss me with tears

why did you bring me here,

this isn’t romantic

with all these people

lets go home.

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