N.B. “BUT TIME MOVES ON, GRAVITY PULLS DOWN, YOU DON’T LOVE ME, AND THE WORLD’S STILL ROUND” – LOGAN BRILL, ‘WORLD STILL ROUND‘
THE TIME HAS COME.
THE TIME HAS COME TO LET OUR FAILURES GO.
I wear silverback.
I’m sorry to myself.
Dad made me aloof.
I love him.
The clouds over his head,
They now sit in his eyes.
This is a letter to a stranger.
Uh, I don’t actually know who this person is.
I did, maybe, I passed them on the street once.
I don’t remember.
Tell me something so innately personal
That it guts you, cuts you up like medieval torture.
Even God could plunge his nails into you.
Who are you?
What are you?
Old friend? Old lover? Older?
Maybe family? You used to call me family.
You don’t want to talk first?
You want me to do the talking?
You’ve got to confess at the end something about you.
You can’t act like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.
You can’t be the future, pointing at the dead horizon.
I’ll go first.
I don’t know if you remember,
But a while back you called me your heart.
Some women get kitchen knives to guard their house.
I prefer .44 Magnums.
Or if I’m feeling Texas on my skin, Remingtons.
You don’t think you’re scared of my Dad.
He’s not so bad. He hugs you like he hugs continents.
Your knees still wobble.
I look at you
Did you do something to your face?
Did you get your plastic surgeon in
To stab your face with his needles
And tell you you’re worthy of beauty?
You are his finished Mona Lisa.
Although I don’t see the charisma.
I see an idiot.
A smile being stretched like its on the rack.
Your face on a Catherine Wheel.
A stake through your stomach.
I see a cold person
Maybe you were warm once.
I don’t know.
I’m still warm from the shower.
We all thought you would open your lips
With some kind of interruption.
Voice your “discomfort”, maybe.
But as strangers go, they’re all cowards, right?
You’ll never talk to me.
Your flesh is chicken. You don’t have the guts.
I barely recognise your soul. Seriously, do I know you?
It had colours.
You look regular, like I dunno.
Shrugging my shoulders here.
You look like the kind of person who wears sports labels for couture like everybody else.
My mother owns ellesse tops too.
You look genderless.
There is a spark there, something real red on your tongue.
Like a maraschino cherry.
You’re a little freezing.
You’re a little dark kiss.
You look like shit.
My hands are too pretty to hold yours.
I have been tossed away in bags,
Each arm a diamond,
Each eye a ruby,
Each tooth a peridot.
You disembowel yourself from my life.
Maybe this is why I cannot place you.
You were a friend.
Maybe more at some point.
But then the weather changed
And you got tossed by God’s flick off my shoulder.
Satan gulped you down.
You are that stranger.
I confess, I do not remember you.
But it was nice to meet you.
I don’t think there’s any reason for you to confess anything.
I throw bruises at the wind, they are wasted.
I throw spits at the ocean, they are dissolved.
I don’t think you get a turn.
My ears, two seashells, don’t want to listen to your sea.
No I already know you’re sorry for turning up like this in the middle of my happy life.
I have to go. Like, I moved on last week.
I will omit the time I threw into the rabbit hole with you.
I will scrub you away like henna.
It will never be your turn.
Not now, not ever.