Strings Attached.

There are strings as far as the eye can see,
Between you and me.
They disappear around corners,
They wrap around memories I vaguely remember existing.
There are clusters of webs in the streets between our houses where we walked, ate, kissed
And there are long silky chords through routes in Soho and Peckham
Stretching and expanding
Reaching out.
And you are the at the end of the strings
Like a dog walker at the helm of unruly animals
Cutting them and expelling them
While I tug-of-war them just to get close to you.

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Stardust (draft 1)

Another night in the Midlands after a heavy weekend of drugs

and you are there to catch me in fresh bed linen, a square meal and cups of tea in bed.

Reminds me – You were there to catch me when I learned to ride a bike. One hand a foot behind my back.

Very little is said about the past, now we talk about the future.

You bring it up like it’s around the corner, crack open another bottle of gin and talk about big things like we’re going down in a plane crash.

Listen, I still can’t bring myself to tell you how much heartache you caused while we bounced between three houses more than a decade ago.

When you disappeared we scooped her up, brought her back from the edge and guided her back to the light.

You’re welcome.

In my experience people who talk about death feel it coming

Feel it’s weight heavy on the brain.

You cried once when you had cancer

Even those who struggle to open up do one day

What’s it really worth now anyway?

At some point in the future you’ll just be stardust.

You’ll be chairs, paper, hair follicles, cotton; twinkling, burning, drifting. Ephemeral.

I look around the living room and feel weightless on the sofa.

You gulp down the remainder of your gin and switch the TV on.

Brian Cox and his Wonders of the Universe

As we watch the swirling beautiful world in silence

You turn to me and say,

“We are all stardust. You. Me. That sofa. Everything.”

Oh god, tell me it’s ok.

Look for the blackest thing and pick it out

I bet it’s a hairdryer

Yes, I am eating alone at this restaurant

And yes, I do like the feeling of being punched in the face

Did I tell you?

There are words for things I don’t even know about yet

Which is distressing because I want to know everything immediately.

Sometimes it’s difficult to know whether being alone is good or bad because it can be both, surely.

Do you understand?

Writing in first person is all I know because I’ve never been anyone else.

The feeling of walking into a room and forgetting what you went in for is how I feel about life now.

Oh god, tell me it’s ok.

You, again.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget I am a living breathing human. 

Occasionally I feel like a pork chop in the butcher’s window, just waiting. 

Have I ever told you being single is harder at the weekend? 

Me saying “don’t get it on my face” made it instantly soft. 

I’m sorry if I should be less vocal with any complaints. I’ve never been an extra-marital fuck. 

My pleasure is often impeded by wondering what your kids look like, so please stop assuming I can come on demand.

Have I ever told you being single is like being trapped in a room with yourself? And there are no windows to gaze out of, only piles of dirty clothes and empty voids.

I want to get sucked into a portal, eat ice cream on the beach, and then go fuck something. 

It’s hard to stop wondering why you haven’t called.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll go throw myself off a bridge to check I’m still alive, if that’s not too dramatic for you.

Maybe you’ll stop being an arsehole and we can all move on.

Disappointment

I am on the train home and I haven’t even begun to think about how to tell my dad I had an existential crisis, quit my job and plan to coast around until I have only enough money to spoon beans into my arid mouth. 

Imagine telling god you wish not to exist.

Imagine meeting your maker.

Dad, I’ve lost my shit and I sort of don’t give a fuck either.

Dear Sylvia

Dear Sylvia  

I am listening to the bray of my heart and I am,

I am,

I am, ok.

I am eating breakfast as if it were my last and not feeling the slightest bit elated.

I am a man in baggy black workwear on the tube annihilating a bag of family sized popcorn 

I am listening to your words and wishing I could adhere

I am living my days to the fullest and hoping

I am waiting for a train that hopefully will never turn up 

I am wondering if it’s possible I will feel this way forever, and if so, I am feeling hopeless.

I am.

I am staring at your smug pouting mouth and knee highs whilst wishing you adversity; unfortunately 

I am wishing ill upon all as I reach three-day-hangover territory. 

I am wishing I hadn’t seen you today using the tone that only I can stop you employing.

I am staring into space and asking myself repeatedly, what am I going to do now?

I am still the reindeer stood coyly at the buffet table.

I am trying.

I am.

I am.

I am.